Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

“I love you,” Miles repeats.

He’s undone my restraints and lifted me into his lap, but he bats away my hand whenever I go for the blindfold.

“I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to hurt you in any way you don’t want to be hurt. I love you, and I’ll always love you.” It seems to be some sort of mantra. If he repeats it, it’ll stick.

I try to believe him.

I really do.

But there’s a little voice in my head that reminds me what happens when people love me—and when I love.

My heart is aching—but there’s a physical pain on top of that. A tenderness. And by the way Miles probes it with his fingers, eliciting a hiss from me, I know it’s intentional. He smears something into my skin, and then he’s got my hand in his.

He brings it to his chest, flattening my palm over his heart.

His thundering pulse flutters against my palm—and then the matching wetness.

“Miles—”

“Shh.” It sounds like an order.

I close my mouth.

He sets me back on the mattress, and his weight disappears. I stay still, listening for him.

His hands return to my ankles, and I suck in a breath. A second later, something is running up my center. His finger, maybe, or—

“You smell like us,” he says from between my legs. His lips kiss my inner thigh.

He pushes a finger into me slowly. I grip the blankets under me, trying desperately to ground myself when he seems desperate to knock me off course.

His lips close over my clit.

“No, no,” I murmur, shifting. Trying to roll away from him. “Miles, I already—”

“You’ll come again,” he says.

And then he’s right back on me, licking and nipping at the sore bud. He continues like he’s got all the time in the world, and fuck, heat spreads through me like wildfire. He grips my ass, keeping my core pressed right to his face. There’s no escape from it, and he builds me up like he’s done it a thousand times before.

How does someone know my body better than me?

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he growls.

He sucks my clit into his mouth, and I scream. My orgasm hits hard, bowling into me. I twist on the sheets, my body lighting up from the inside.

“Beautiful girl.” His fingers are working inside me. “One more, hmm?”

“I can’t.”

I’m glad for the blindfold, because it obscures the tears forming. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Maybe it’s his tone, which is rasping and low and gentle. A new piece of the puzzle of Miles Whiteshaw flipped over. But where does it fit?

“Do you love me?”

I stop. Every part of me rebels against that notion.

If I want him to walk out the door right now, I’d say it. I’d say it, even though it’s a fucking lie, and I’d lose him.

“Willow, do you love me?”

I lick my lips. “You can’t torture me into saying it. Or feeling it.”

He sighs. His breath hits my pussy, and I almost jump. For a stupid second, I forgot how close he was. His fingers have stopped thrusting into me, but they’re still rubbing my G-spot lightly, coaxing out sensations that I battle against.

“Do you remember that night on the porch?” His voice is husky now. “You were crying. He missed a competition, and you saw him flirting with someone else.”

I work my jaw. But yes, I do remember that night. I remember being so devastated that Knox chose to stay home, that he forgot. And later, he slipped platitudes in my ear. I’m sorry, baby, time just got away from me. I’ll see the next one… But there wasn’t a next one. Summer was right around the corner.

But Miles…

He came to one of our dance competitions.

I saw him sitting in the bleachers my sophomore year. I don’t know what made me peek out from the black curtains that framed the stage, but something in me wanted to see the crowd, to try and convince myself they weren’t all evil.

Someone had said to picture them all naked—so maybe I was trying that out.

Either way, my attention snagged on him.

And the butterflies that erupted in my chest were unprecedented.

For the first time, someone had showed up. I had just been at the arena with the other girls prior to our competition, because some of them were hooking up with guys on the team, and I was the sucker who went along with them.

But I saw him, and he talked to me through the glass.

And then he showed up.

I tear the blindfold off my face, blinking at the ceiling. It takes me another moment of courage to sit up and meet his gaze.

“I don’t love you.” The words are out before I can stop them. But now that they hang between us, I can’t go back. Can’t snatch them out of the air like they don’t exist. “I won’t love you. Ever.”

His face shatters. He pulls out and stands, seeming to contemplate what to do with me. He seems to go through the stages of grief right in front of me—denial, anger, whatever else. His jaw tenses, like he’s going to argue with it.

I glare back, begging him to believe me.

“I don’t love you, Miles Whiteshaw,” I repeat. “After everything you’ve done to me? I’m smarter than that. I’m stronger than that.”

But the worst part?

I’m pretty sure I’m lying.

Miles checks his watch, and he swears. He leaves me on the bed and disappears into the bathroom. A second later, the shower starts. I sit up carefully, waiting for a moment. My heart is hammering, so loud it’s a match for the rush of the shower.

I yank on my clothes and braid my hair away from my face. Slip my feet into shoes and leave his hotel room with my purse slung over my shoulder. My bag can stay in his room. Fuck it, everything can stay. I’ll rent a car and drive home if I must.

Or…

We’re close to my childhood home. An hour drive, at most.

So why would I drive back to Crown Point when I can go home?

My vision blurs.

Fuck, you’re still crying.

I dash my hands under my eyes and hurry downstairs. The concierge at the front desk is helpful—he finds me a taxi company that’ll take me all the way to my parents’ house. It’s pulling out front in no time at all, and I climb into the backseat with my chest tight.

I can’t seem to take a breath.

But then the taxi rounds the corner away from the hotel, and everything in me releases. The tightness, the guilt. It snaps, and all I’m left with is fucking relief.