Pucked Love (Pucked, #6)(23)

Charlene must read my confusion. “He’s a grower, not a shower.”

“And you know this how?”

“I accidentally got a peek in Vegas when we had to pry Violet away from Alex for the wedding. You would not be granted access if you were packing a cannon like that.”

I’m not sure if I should be offended or not. “I’m above average.” I know this because I’ve read the articles and taken the necessary measurements.

“Trust me, I’m very aware of how above average you are. But Alex is scary huge.”

“Huh. Well that’s . . . interesting.” I accepted a long time ago that Alex is the better player on the ice, but I always thought I had a leg up—proverbially speaking—in this department. As a competitive person, I’m displeased to find out he’s winning in that area, too. So far he’s more accomplished in hockey, relationships, cock size, and who the fuck knows what else.

“How were the guys today? I’m sure they had all kinds of things to say.” Charlene bites her lip and dips a finger in her hot chocolate before slipping it in her mouth. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be intentionally sexual or not. I choose to pretend it didn’t happen rather than offer her something significantly larger to dip in there.

“Randy wanted to know who wore the ball gag.”

Charlene’s eyes widen. “What did you say?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Just curious, I suppose.”

“I told them no one wears it.”

“That’s it?”

“And that you don’t like the way it tastes.”

She traces the edge of the donut on her knee. “I could try it again if you want.”

Would I like to see Charlene wearing a ball gag? I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed. But is it something I need? Absolutely not.

“I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t one-hundred percent enjoy. My concern today is that you weren’t overwhelmed by questions, or a sense of responsibility or ownership for what happened. I don’t want you to feel as though you have to tell me anything you talked to the girls about today, but I hope if there’s something that isn’t working between us, you would come to me so I could try to fix it.”

She tips her head to the side, eyes locked on mine. “I like how we are together. And I like that you’re here now.”

“As do I.”

She takes another sip of her drink, licking away the marshmallow foam that sticks to her lip. She manages to leave a little behind.

“You missed some.” I rub my thumb over the spot.

I’m not disappointed when Charlene’s fingers wrap around my wrist and her lips close over my thumb, swirling slowly, eyes locked on mine. These kinds of real conversations aren’t always easy with Charlene because we’re both so guarded. But we can communicate incredibly well in other ways.

When she releases my thumb, I replace it with my lips. I didn’t kiss Charlene last night, except for maybe once or twice. Which drives her crazy.

Charlene loves making out. She would kiss until her lips are raw if I let her. Sometimes I deny her, so the next time we’re together I can capitalize on how much she seems to love the simple act of kissing.

I stroke inside her mouth on a leisurely sweep. Charlene moans, low and sweet, fingertips dragging softly down my cheek as she opens wider, inviting me deeper. Which is the exact moment I disengage and retreat to the other side of the couch.

“Your toes should be dry now. I can put on a second coat.”

She’s still clutching her mug in one hand. Her eyes dart down, and she exhales a shaky breath.

I take my time with the nail polish, making sure each toe is perfect before moving on to the next. I know Charlene is still trying to figure out what’s going on here. My being here, unannounced, bringing her flowers and chocolate, painting her toenails for fuck’s sake—I’ve never done any of this before. Not in two years. And I’m starting to see very clearly how that needs to change. Because tonight I’ve realized something very important. Up until now, I’ve only seen the side of Charlene she thinks I want.

And while I adore that she likes to try new things and experiment with sex positions and ridiculous toys, I think I might enjoy this just as much.

Once I’m done, I clean up the discarded Q-tips and tissues and take them all to the kitchen. I toss everything in the garbage and wash my hands, then root around in Charlene’s cupboards for a snack. She has an odd balance between holistic stuff and junk food. I hit the jackpot when I find a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos stuffed in the back of the cupboard. I check the fridge for beer, but Charlene isn’t big on it, so I’m unsurprised to come up empty handed. She has ginger ale and lots of milk. She also has a container of onion dip, which will go perfectly with the Doritos. I snatch the Godiva bag from the counter and bring it with me to the living room.

Charlene’s expression goes from hopeful to crestfallen. “What’re you doing?”

“I thought you might want a snack.”

“Doritos and onion dip? Why did you even come here if you’re going to eat that?” Charlene seems annoyed, angry even.

“Would you like me to find something else?”

She throws her hands up in the air. “Yes! You ruin making out when you have Dorito breath.”