Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(96)

The next thing I know, Kingston has lifted me off the ground, my legs are wrapped tightly around his hips, and he’s carrying me out of the kitchen. He doesn’t go to the stairs, so I know we’re not going to his room. Probably not wanting to waste too much time, he carries me into his darkened office, then closes and locks the door behind him as I lower myself to the ground. Without releasing my grip on his neck, I lead him over to the leather sofa.

“I need to be inside you,” he mutters as he fumbles with the button on my jeans.

Good. At least we’re on the same page.

While he works to free me from my jeans, I do the same with his. Another growl escapes him as he spins me around to face the desk.

This looks interesting.

Planting my hands on the mahogany top, I lean over while he shoves my jeans and panties down. Thankfully, I had thought to take my boots off earlier in an attempt to get comfortable. It allows me to free one foot from the denim and silk so I can widen my stance while he rolls a condom on.

“Ellie…” The word is a gravel-laced whisper against my ear. His warm, rough hands grip my hips, and I’m pulled back toward him. “I promise next time’ll be better.”

“I think this time’ll be pretty damn good,” I assure him. If he thinks I’m bothered by the fact that we’re having a quickie in his office, then he’s wrong. So wrong.

A moan escapes when he fills me from behind.

“Feel so good,” he rumbles against my ear. “So f*cking good, Ellie.”

That’s an understatement. This feels … incredible.

Once he’s fully seated inside me, Kingston wraps one thick arm around my waist and begins pumping his hips. There’s nothing slow or sweet about this joining, and I’m completely good with that. This is freaking hot. I’m not sure I’ve ever known a man who has acted as though he literally can’t keep his hands off me. That’s the way I feel when I’m with Kingston.

His beard brushes my cheek as he f*cks me harder. He’s holding me with one arm, and I’m keeping my hands planted on the desk so that I don’t tumble forward.

“Ellie … I’m not sure I can hold off, baby.”

I don’t want him to. I want him to f*ck me like he wants to. Like he can’t get enough. I rock my hips back when he thrusts forward. A rough growl echoes in the room.

“God, yes…” He slams into me again at the precise moment I push back.

We keep moving just like that for… God, I have no idea how long we go at it, but the feeling is spectacular. The way he stretches me, filling me, claiming me.

Kingston’s mouth moves to my neck and he nips me with his teeth. It’s a predatory move that sends my climax barreling through me. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out just in case they came back from the walk early.

“That’s it, Ellie. Fucking come for me, baby.”

I’m trying to catch my breath as lights dance behind my closed eyelids.

“Did you come?” he asks, but I suspect he already knows the answer.

“Oh, yeah.” I slam back against him. “It’s your turn.”

Kingston stands up, his fingers digging into the flesh on my hips, and he begins f*cking me harder, deeper, driving me right over the edge one more time. This time I can’t keep from moaning as I’m overwhelmed with sensation.

“I’m coming, Ell. Coming so f*cking hard.”

Yeah, well, that makes two of us.





38

Kingston

Friday, December 2nd

Standing in front of the net, I dig my skates into the thin ice beneath my feet. I lock my knees and try to fill as much of the empty space behind me as possible. My gaze flicks up to the time that’s slowly ticking down. One minute, thirty-seven seconds. That feels like an eternity when I’m holding on to a shutout. No way will I let these guys take it from me. Not tonight.

Tampa Bay’s right wing barrels toward me, bypassing our defenseman waiting in the wings. With some fancy puck handling, he taps the puck between Seg’s legs, then taps it again on the other side. I shift to my left and move farther out of the goal, making a larger target as he continues toward me.

“No way, man,” I mutter to myself. “Not tonight.”

In my peripheral vision, I see their center race forward, getting into position for a rebound. I’ve seen this move before, and if they’ve perfected their timing, I’m screwed.

Their right winger rears back, slaps the puck my way, but it gets no air, and I see a body slide across the ice in front of me. It’s Patrick Benne and he’s laid out like Superman, his body deflecting the puck, sending it right over to Spencer.

I watch, my eyes never leaving the puck as Spencer rears back and smacks the shit out of it, sending it flying down the rink and right into … the empty net!

Goal!

The roar of the buzzer drowns out the screams from the fans.

Fuck yes!

We’re up by one and a quick look at the clock says we’ve only got twenty-eight seconds before this shit is over. I’m feeling good. My heart is pounding due to the adrenaline slamming through me. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. Although in regular time, twenty-eight seconds is gravy, in hockey time, it’s a hell of a lot more. Anything can happen. Hell, if they were desperate enough—and with a little luck—they could possibly get two goals on me and win this one.