As I step into her, bringing my hard cock against her back, she issues a tiny moan of acceptance or protest, I’m not sure. I wrap an arm around her stomach, the other over her breasts, and hold her tight to my body so I can whisper in her ear, “Going to bend you over and fuck you from behind. Any objections?”
Veronica shakes her head furiously. “God, no. No objections.”
“Good,” I reply, doing exactly as promised. I release my hold and bend her over the table. It doesn’t sit high enough for her to lie her stomach and chest on it and keep her ass tilted high enough for me. So she braces with her forearms on the hard wood as I press myself against her. Using my hand to guide myself, I slide slowly into her.
“Christ,” I growl, because I don’t recall anything feeling this good.
Ever.
So tight and willing… so Veronica.
I smooth my hands up her back and hear her responding purr of contentment. I can think of a thousand ways to get her to make that sound again, and I start filing them away for another time.
My hands travel back to her hips, and I start to move. Sliding out, thrusting back in deeply. Steady, measured strokes that pick up in speed and force. Veronica makes tiny gasping sounds with each pump of my hips, and I can’t stop the guttural sounds tearing from me. It feels so fucking good, I feel like an animal as I fuck her harder and faster.
“Feels… good,” Veronica stutters between thrusts.
“Too… good,” I reply. Because it’s dangerous for anything to feel this good.
“Riggs,” she moans after I bottom out extra deep, shoving the entire dining room table forward a few inches. “I’m close.”
Fuck, so am I. But no way I’m going before her.
I pull her hips back, reach an arm around her, and dive my hand back between her legs. I roll her clit without missing a single thrust, and I’m shocked when Veronica cries out an almost immediate release. Pussy tightening around my cock, her cries devolve into a groan of pleasure, and my balls shrink, orgasm brewing at the base of my spine. I’m ready to tip over.
I slam into her one last time, keep my hand between her legs, and with the other pull her up by her throat so she’s standing straight against me as I come. I keep dipping and flexing my hips, working my way deeper and deeper into her as I unload, and it’s the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had.
Twisting me up and turning me inside out, not sure I’ll ever reach that pinnacle again, I’m sure as fuck going to try with this woman.
CHAPTER 15
Riggs
It’s amazing what a difference six weeks can make. While I’ve seen Baden here and there, the last time he and I sat at a table and shared beers was six weeks ago when we were in New York for a game. He was most comfortable in the wheelchair despite being able to walk with crutches and braces. Crowds made him too unsteady, and it wasn’t safe.
But now I stand from the restaurant table where I’d been waiting for him and can’t help but grin as he follows a hostess toward me.
No wheelchair. Only a pair of forearm crutches for extra balance and slimmed-down braces on each leg. He’s confident as he maneuvers, sometimes needing to change his body’s position and sidestep tight spaces between tables, but not once does he look off-balance. He doesn’t even look like it’s much of an effort.
I suspect the wheelchair might be in storage at this point.
Baden reaches the table, and the hostess smiles before departing. I hold back the urge to walk around the table and pull out his chair for him. I know it’s going to take maneuvering for him to do it, but I also know he’d punch me if I tried to help.
“What’s up, man?” I say to fill the silence as he focuses on sitting down. “Looks like you’re about ready to run a marathon.”
Baden snorts in amusement, and I take my seat. He removes one of the forearm crutches and balances himself as he pulls out the chair with his free hand. He turns in a shuffling, three-step movement and lowers into the chair while using the crutches to support his weight and prevent a complete flop. It’s graceful the way he moves.
Leaning slightly to the right, he’s able to slip both crutches into the empty chair between us. He puts his hands to the bottom of his seat and using mostly his torso and upper body strength, he scoots himself in.
“Fuck, that’s a lot of work,” he huffs once he’s settled. “Who knew just sitting on your ass could take that much effort?”
“You made it look easy,” I assure him.
A waitress arrives, and we request ice water while we peruse the menu. No beers today as I have a workout in a few hours, and well… Baden’s always working out to get stronger.
He’d invited me out to lunch because he’s trying to take opportunities to maneuver around the city on his own and build his confidence to do so. While his legs are indeed now communicating with his brain, they’re not at peak performance, and he’s still using a handicapped van that operates via hand controls. I know he’ll give that up one day when he has full use of his legs without the braces, but it’s a tremendous accomplishment that he drove himself here to this restaurant and walked himself through that door. He did so with his head held high, oblivious to the people staring at him. Baden is a well-recognized figure around Phoenix for not only being a member of the Cup championship team, but his injury last summer made the national news.
For the next half hour, we shoot the hockey shit. We talk about last night’s game against the Carolina Cold Fury, losing 4–2. They’re our quintessential archrivals. We beat them last year for the Cup, taking away their chances for a three-peat performance, having won the championship the prior two years. They’re at the top of their division, and we’re at the top of ours. We could be gearing up for a rematch.
Except… we played like shit last night, which is the topic of our somber discussion.
When Baden and I have fully broken down the crappy performance and what needs to improve for next game, as well as finished off our food—a turkey club for me and a huge hamburger for him—I ask him a personal question. It’s part of my efforts to be more involved in my teammates’ lives and jumping in on personal stuff is the best way to speed that along.
“Your progress has been amazing,” I say, a compliment I’ve already handed him once today. “What do the doctors and rehab folks think about where your recovery is going?”
Baden drums his fingers on the table and gives me a mirthless smile. “You mean, do they think I’ll get back on the ice again?”
I nod. Because that’s exactly what I want to know. I expect Baden has an idea, and I expect the management and coaches have an inkling based on talking with his doctors, but the rest of the team doesn’t know.
And I am his friend. I want to know what is in store for him because I need to know how to be there, to be present with the right kind of support. It’s what Baden preached to me six weeks ago over beers in New York.
“I’m not going to be getting back on the ice,” Baden says, and I don’t detect an ounce of pity in his tone.
But I’m stunned by this revelation. He’s a walking miracle, and I’d assumed there would come a day when he’d be back to a hundred percent. He’s been working so hard, I just imagined it was for an achievable end-goal, but I didn’t know how long that would take. “Really? But you’re doing so great.”