Page 38 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

Despite it being incredible, I can only eat half of my soup. I can’t say the same for Calvin, though. He eats every single dish he carried over for himself, and then when he sees that I’m done, he finishes my soup off as well.

I snuggle down on the couch under my blanket and watch the movie. A comfortable silence falls between us, and I finally relax.

I shift as my legs get stiff, curled up on one of my couches. It’s not small, but I’m also not used to sharing it with a hockey player.

“Come here,” he says, grabbing my bundled-up feet and resting them in his lap.

“What are you⁠—”

“You’re uncomfortable,” he states, fully stretching my legs out and making me groan. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

I expect him to move his hand, but he never does. Instead, he rests it on top of my feet, as if touching me is comforting to him.

It messes with my head, and I try my hardest not to obsess over the feeling of his palm burning through the blanket and into my skin.

It certainly stops the chills from returning.

I have no sense of how much time has passed; I’m not even sure I’ve been awake, because I barely remember the movie when his hand finally moves. Only, it’s not so he can get up.

“Oh God,” I moan when he presses his thumb into the arch of my foot.

I glance over and find him watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.

My lips move to say something, but I don’t know what that should be.

Should I be telling him to stop?

Should I be asking him to continue?

To leave? To stay?

In the end, I close my mouth and just enjoy.

I tell myself that one foot rub doesn’t make me a puck bunny. That it doesn’t mean anything. And before I know it, I’m drifting off to sleep with him turning my muscles to goo.

The next thing I’m aware of are hands sliding under my body, and the sense that I’m flying.

I inhale sharply through my nose, and my eyes fly open when the potent scent of man hits me.

“Shit,” he curses. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“Why are you lifting me from the couch?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep.

“I’m taking you to bed, darlin’. You need your rest. And as comfortable as your couch is, it’s not enough for you to spend the night on.”

“Oh.”

“Which bedroom is yours?”

“L-left,” I stutter as my brain misfires.

Calvin Keller is about to carry me into my bedroom.

But…it is very, very far from the way my libido wishes it were.

That little whore is desperate for him to lower me onto my bed and then crawl over me, and— Fuck.