Pleasure darkens Brenna’s eyes. She sweeps her long hair over one shoulder, and it cascades down, veiling her nipple. I reach through the dark strands and tweak the rigid bud before muttering, “Ride me.”

She does. But it’s just the slight rocking of her hips.

Again, she’s teasing me. And again, I’m loving it. I gaze up at her breasts, groaning when she cups them with her hands. Christ, that’s sexy. I stroke her hips, caress her thighs, rub her clit with my thumb. I can’t stop touching her. Luckily, she’s not complaining. Each time a fingertip makes contact with her flesh, she moans or whimpers or releases a contented breath.

“I like you, Jake,” she murmurs.

“I like you, too.”

Her pace quickens, and my eyes close. I more than like her. I think I’m falling for her. But I’m not going to say it out loud, and especially not during sex. From what I’ve heard, chicks don’t take a sex I-love-you seriously. They think it’s induced by semen.

But semen has nothing to do with the warm sensation ballooning in my chest. It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before, and that’s how I know it’s real. It’s not lust—trust me, I know lust. This is something entirely new.

I am definitely falling for this girl.

As she rides me, a flush rises on the tops of her breasts. “These are so pretty,” I mutter, squeezing them gently.

She leans forward. “Put your mouth on them.”

So I do, nuzzling the swell of one soft tit before capturing a nipple between my lips. Her pussy clenches around me, and she starts moving faster.

“Getting close?”

She nods wordlessly. Her breathing quickens. She’s no longer riding me so much as grinding furiously against me. I have to grip her hips to steady her, because she’s trembling so wildly.

“That’s a good girl. Give it to me.”

She comes apart, collapsing on my chest and struggling for breath. And as she’s climaxing I dig my fingers into her waist and thrust upward, pounding into her until I come too.

Within seconds of our respective orgasms, Brenna lifts her hips, grips the base of the condom so nothing spills out, and pulls me out of her. Then she turns on her side, snuggling up beside me. I hold her close to me and we fall asleep like that.

33

Brenna

I love Jake’s apartment. It’s big, roomy, and always nice and toasty, not frostbite cold like my basement in Hastings. I know I can’t stay forever, but for now I’m enjoying being here. Being with him.

It sucks that some of my friends still aren’t speaking to me, but to be honest, I’m starting not to care. Jonah Hemley didn’t purposely set out to break Hunter’s wrist. I do believe it was an accident. And yes, it wasn’t Hunter’s fault—he had no idea that he’d slept with Jonah’s girlfriend. Violet, or whatever her name is, was the one pretending to be single while cheating on her boyfriend. But at the same time, she was Jonah’s girlfriend, and the kid was upset. Sure, he handled the situation poorly, but not maliciously.

Speaking of upset, my friends are undoubtedly feeling the sting tonight. The Division I Men’s Ice Hockey Committee made its selections—and Briar won’t be one of the sixteen teams playing in the national tournament. Harvard has their auto-bid because they won the conference tournament. And from our conference, Princeton and Cornell received at-large bids from the committee over Briar.

Right now, the talking heads on TV are picking apart the conference finals. I’d been scrolling through my phone while Jake watched the segment, but my head jerks up when Kip Haskins mentions a familiar name.

“Are they talking about Nate? Turn it up.”

Jake hits a button on the remote control. The volume gets louder.

“Briar University should’ve won that game,” Kip is telling his cohost.

I turn to Jake with a huge grin. “Hear that, Jakey? Even the talking heads agree.”

“Uh-huh, well, you didn’t win the game, now did you?”

“Hush, baby, I’m trying to watch.”

He snorts.

On the screen, Kip is raising very good points. “Their two best players were ejected. How in good conscience can you call that a fair matchup? That’s like the ’83-’84 season Oilers playing in the Stanley Cup finals without Wayne Gretzky and Paul Coffey.”

“Oh fuck off,” Jake scoffs. “There’s no way he’s comparing Hunter Davenport and Nate Rhodes to Gretzky and Coffey!”

“They are really good,” I point out.

Jake is agape. “Gretzky-level good?”

“Well, no,” I relent. “But nobody is.”

“I am,” he says smugly.

I roll my eyes, because I don’t want to encourage his grandiose delusions, but deep down I suspect he might be right. Aside from Garrett Graham, there haven’t been many players out of college lately with Gretzky potential. Jake is definitely an anomaly.

“Playing with the big boys is a lot different than college,” I warn him.

“Oh really, played on a lot of NHL teams, have ya?”

“Absolutely. I did a few seasons with New York—Islanders and Rangers. Two seasons with the Maple Leafs—”

“Oh shut up.” He pulls me into his lap and starts kissing my neck.

“I’m not done watching,” I protest. The announcers are still arguing, but now it’s even more hilarious, because Trevor Trent is basically saying the same thing as Kip Haskins. They’re now both in complete agreement that the Briar-Harvard game was unequivocally lopsided.

“See!” I say victoriously. “Even they know the truth! You can’t say you won that game.”

“Of course I can say we won the game.” He’s exasperated. “Because we won the game! Hello? Auto-bid?”

“Yes, but… Okay, I’m not going to argue about this,” I grumble. “Just know that if Hunter and Nate were skating that night, the outcome could’ve been a lot different.”

“That is true,” Jake agrees.

“I heard it was about a girl,” Trevor is saying, and the two HockeyNet hosts chuckle at each other, until Kip dons a thoughtful look.

“But that raises a good question,” Kip muses. “If you’re so immature that you’re swinging your fists over a girl during the most crucial game of your season—do you not deserve to get ejected?”

“Hunter didn’t get ejected!” I yell at the screen.

Trevor backs me up. “Davenport wasn’t ejected. He was injured. The instigator was Jonah Hemley.”

“And what’s Rhodes’s excuse?” Kip shoots back. “He’s the team captain. What’s he doing throwing himself in the middle of a brawl?”

“Damn right!” Jake chimes in. “Rhodes made his own bed.”

“You know these hockey players—they’re hot-blooded,” Trevor counters. “They operate on aggression and passion.”

Jake hoots. “You hear that, Hottie? I’m aggressive and passionate.”

“I am so turned on right now.”

“Good. Get on your knees and suck me off. See how aggressive and passionate I am?”