Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Forty-Three × Like a Pinch

If I was, I would wish for us to be in this moment forever. Because in his parent's guest bathroom which was very obviously decorated by his mother - given the fresh flowers and amount of potpourri, everything is simple. There's no debate about money, or my career, or the where's and what if's that would happen if he were ever traded or we ever fell apart. If he ever fell out of love with me.

I know he likes to talk in definitives: we'll be together, forever; I'll never stop being crazy about you; we're gonna grow old together; we're gonna get married, one day soon. Not in those exact words because it's four in the morning (I think?) and I'm paraphrasing here, but the point is that he likes to make promises that are impossible to keep.

I, more than anyone else in the world, crave stability and grantees - it's part of my Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I want to know what tomorrow is going to be like, what next week, what the future will hold. I don't want to know how I would die though, because ironically enough, I think that would make me too anxious. Or never want to cross the street again - or die of embarrassment, depending on which vibrator I get electrocuted to death by.

The point is, that these things he promises me; the words he says, they're not true. He may have the intention behind them and want to fulfill it with every fiber of his being; every molecule of his perfectly sculpted body - but he can't.

Because - as much as it pains me to admit it, nothing in life is certain. Nothing in life is guaranteed. I know that there's that old saying "except life, death, and taxes" or something, but even the tax man gets sick sometimes. So, nothing in life will go as we expect it to be.

I read about it on Reddit all the time - or at least, I used to, back before my therapist - along with Erik, highly recommended to me that I stop doom browsing. Which I am really making an effort on - which I say after reading horror stories on the toilet earlier. Yeah, maybe I shouldn't tell him about that right before sex.

"Fuck." He - being Erik and not the toilet (though I'm sure he would have his own complaints to moan about), says as he enters me. It feels different to be sitting in this position while we're embarking on another journey of my interiors. Tighter, more constricted - like a pair of leggings that I haven't worn in a while.

"Oh my god." I say, wishing I had something more creative or unique to say during sex, but coming up with blanks worse than a basketball player that can't shoot. It's not necessarily a "fuck me harder" moan that you might hear in porn, followed by the sound of an avocado smacking against something. More like an "I need a moment" oh my god, which is mostly due to Erik's size.

Maybe he's not that big - maybe I just have an incredibly small vagina. Then again, the condoms he wears always read large on the wrappers; so, I believe it to be a combination of the two. Sometimes bigger is better and sometimes bigger just means you have more to fit. Nothing against him and his package, I just sometimes I need a little extra postage to fit it through the mailing machine.

"You okay?" He asks, the look of concern and care on his face - despite the fact that I'm sure he would love nothing more than to continue, being enough to put an extra stamp on me. He doesn't continue moving and wait until he's produced the water for my fountain to check on me, he stops before going further. He shows he cares not just through his words, but through his actions. He shows he cares about me.

I let out a breath, trying to remember some breathing technique that I'm sure a Buddhist monk came up with. Apparently, they don't have sex; but how else are they surviving on only rice and so happy, all day? I call bullshit. "Yeah. Just give me a second." I tell him, expanding my hands on his shoulders like I'm an orchestra member positioning my fingers on a piano. Do they have a piano in an orchestra? Who knows. I do suppose using your fingers is more of an individual venture.

"We can stop if it doesn't feel good." He tells me, leaning down and placing a long kiss on my lips. It's like I'm his crack and he's an addict though, because as soon as he does, he just wants more. It seems we would both be part of the same Anonymous Group, because I find myself feeling the same.

His mouth feels like a warm blanket on a cold day; like a piece of pumpkin pie at the end of Thanksgiving dinner; like just the right spot when I'm alone with my vibrator. I find myself pulling him closer, making sure to show him I want more - and credit to him, he delivers. His tongue is in my mouth faster than a monkey with a banana going rogue and shoving it in the fact of his fellow monkeys.

When I've been kissed before, by humans whose names were not Erik King, it felt odd; unnatural. Like, this is what I've been reading about? This is what I've spent hours (more like days) of my life, touching myself to; this is it? I was beyond disappointed.

It turns out that when you meet the right person, they bring the magic with them. They bring you the feelings of butterflies and comfort and horniness that you've been reading of. He did with me; and still does, everyday. Which makes me both more scared and anxious to lose him.

"Okay." I say, my mouth barely coming off of his to say the words. I want to become a conjoint twin and make sure our mouths are always on each others, which I know sounds weird as I think it in my head but it's the truth. The way he shows me exactly what he's feeling with his mouth, it's a skill I must say he should put on a resume - you know, if the being a professional hockey player thing ever doesn't work out.

His breathing gets heavier, and he takes his mouth off mine and onto my chest. Like an actor in one of those romance novels, or like the cover of one of the books that I used to order from the library before realizing my parents could see my holds. I used to think he did it because he couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time; turns out that it's so that he lasts longer. How much longer, you may ask, a total of thirty one seconds.

"Jesus." He grunts, making me very aware of how not alone in the house we are and how loud he usually is. No wonder Kayden roasts him all the time for our sex life; it's not just the hickies on my neck or body that are causing it, it's your loud, ape-like noises.

It seems as if he's forgotten all about this, or the fact that we're in his parents house, doing something we most certainly should not be. The type of thing that would stamp and mail his parents idea that I'm not good enough for their son because I used to be an Only Fans girl.

As if my anxieties have morphed out of my head and taken a stroll around the neighborhood, a knock comes at the door. "Hey, you almost done with the shower?"

I, am officially dead. Pronounce me.