If You Love Me: Chapter 9

“I’ll do that for you.” Roman’s warm, calloused hands move mine away. I let mine fall to my sides and shiver as he finger combs my hair. It’s devastatingly sexy to have this huge, imposing man french braid my hair.

I watch him in the mirror, my nipples peaking against my sleep tank. Not for the first time, I wish I’d packed sexy lingerie for this trip. Although I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours naked.

Roman’s forearms flex as he gathers hair with his pinkie, feeding it into the braid. When he’s finished, I pass him the hair tie, and he secures the end. Then he wraps it around his fist, tugging gently as his lips skim my neck. His other hand slides down my stomach to cup between my thighs. “I’m going to enjoy holding this when I ruin your pussy,” he growls in my ear.

The sound turns into a grating beep. My eyes pop open. My sheets are twisted around my thighs, I’m sweaty, and my hand is in my underpants. “Seriously?” I shoot my phone a dirty look as I silence my alarm. I was just getting to the good part.

This is the fifth time in as many days that I’ve woken from an explicit dream featuring Roman. I thought they would settle down with time, not ramp up. Between ice time and the past two exhibition games, one of which we lost, I would have thought working together would dull his effect.

But apparently, my vagina is pining for Roman’s cock.

I can’t go to work like this. I need some release. But we’re living in a three-bedroom condo. And half the time Callie crawls into bed with me around this time. The bathroom is the only place I have decent privacy. It’s five thirty. I don’t leave for work until seven, and Fee doesn’t get up until six. Decision made, I grab my mini faux-makeup case of adult devices from my nightstand drawer—I learned to hide them after Callie almost found my clit sucker charging in the bathroom—and rush across the hall.

I lock the door and turn on the fan. The one in our old house sounded like a plane was landing in the bathroom, but at least no one could hear me moan. This one is new and unfortunately quiet. I strip out of my nightshirt and panties, grab my waterproof toy, and step into the shower.

And because I’m weak, I call upon the memories of my weekend with Roman. It’s what I always do when I need a fast and dirty orgasm. I slide my vibrator inside me, turn it up to the highest setting, and let my eyes fall closed as the memories hit me—the phantom press of his hand on my hip, the other gripping my breast as I straddled his thighs and rode his gloriously thick cock. Or how he made good on his promise to hold my braid around his fist.

Orgasm one slams through me, and I sink to my knees. I’m all about stockpiling, because who knows when I’ll have ten minutes to myself again? I go for orgasm number two, remembering the way he dragged me to the edge of the bed, dropped to his knees, and tongue-fucked my pussy until I was screaming his name. Then he flipped me over and pounded me into the mattress until I was delirious. Orgasm two hits like a lightning strike.

I let the water beat against my back as I catch my breath and try, desperately, to shut down the other memories. It hadn’t just been sex. He’d ordered room service, pulled me into his lap on the couch, and fed me caramel-drenched apple slices. Which led to more sex and creative uses for the caramel sauce. And when we were both too exhausted to move, he curved his body around mine in the night and held me close. Possessive and tight.

That’s enough fantasizing, I tell myself. You can’t be his. I cut the water.

All my heat and need dissipate as I remind myself that I worked my ass off to get this job. Being attracted to Roman is an inconvenience I can’t afford to indulge outside of the privacy of my own bedroom. Or the shower. We can’t happen. Not now. Probably not ever. Besides, he can’t be in the same room with me for more than five minutes without getting antsy. I assume it’s because of the awkwardness and not because his memories of our time together keep popping up like an X-rated game of Whac-A-Mole. Which makes getting myself off to the memory of him even more pathetic.

I wrap myself in a towel, stuff my fun-time toys into my tote, and throw open the bathroom door. “Shit! What the hell, Fee?” My sister is standing outside the door, wearing her creepy smile—the one that makes her look like she should have a role in a horror film.

She glances down at the makeup case and arches a brow. “You better not have used all the hot water.”

I roll my eyes. “I changed your diapers. You don’t scare me.”

She brushes by me, but before she closes the door she looks back, her grin positively evil. “I know what you keep in there.” The door clicks shut and locks.

“I will one hundred percent embarrass the hell out of you with a pro-self-exploration talk, if you’re not careful,” I call through the door. It’s so hard to be her sister and her pseudo mom.

I change into coaching attire and pad to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. While I assemble fruit and yogurt parfaits for me and the girls, I call my dad.

“Hey, Lexi. How’s everything going?” he asks.

“Hey, Dad. Everything’s good,” I lie. “How about you? Did you get the pictures I sent of the girls’ rooms?”

“I did! They look great! Did they like their housewarming gifts?” he asks.

“Callie is in love with her new bed, and Fee loves her art station. It was completely over the top and unnecessary, but we all appreciate it.” My dad insisted on paying for a moving service, and he mined me for information on what I thought the girls would like or need for their new bedrooms. He bought Callie a hockey-themed bedroom set and a professional art desk for Fee. He also bought us brand-new, very expensive living room furniture. I’m used to his extravagant gifts. But since my mom passed away, I find I’d rather have more time with him than things. His life is busy, though. Being a fancy lawyer isn’t a job, it’s a lifestyle.

“I’m so glad. How are you settling in? How are the girls handling the change?”

“Condo living is an adjustment, but Fee loves her new arts school, and Callie’s enrolled in an after-school hockey program, so I’ll take the wins where I can get them.”

“And the new job? It’s going well? That exhibition game win the other night was clean. Lots of positive press for you.”

His pride bolsters me. “Thanks. It’s been great so far. Lots to learn, but management is super supportive, and the team is amazing.” The only catch is having slept with the goalie.

“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m proud of you. You set a goal, and you achieved it.”

I smile. It doesn’t matter that I turn thirty next year; his approval matters—now more than ever since he’s the only parent I have left.

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” I admit.

“Just maintain your professionalism, and you’ll do great,” he says. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

How disappointed would he be if he knew the truth? But three years ago, I never imagined I’d be here. “How’s work? How’s Jacqueline?”

“Work is good, and Jacqueline is also good. She says hello.”

“Tell her I say hello back.”

“We’ll come to a game once the official season starts. Or maybe I’ll come on my own, depending on her schedule,” he amends.

“Whatever works. I’ll get you good seats,” I offer. It would be better if Jacqueline didn’t come. She’s not a bad person, but she doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and she’s about as interested in hockey as I am in hanging out with her lawyer friends.

We end the call, and I finish making breakfast.

My dad and Jacqueline are both career-focused and at the same firm, which is why their relationship works. I only see my dad a couple of times a year, and our visits typically include a sporting event that he works through, a distracted dinner, and a promise to spend more time with me next time.

I was barely two when my parents split, so I don’t remember them together. But my mom was always focused on what she didn’t get in the divorce, a.k.a. money. Eventually she met my stepdad, who doted on her and gave her everything she ever wanted. She expected to be taken care of, felt entitled to have her every whim provided for. That drove me to make my own way, and it was one of the reasons I never tried to contact Roman after our weekend together. He would have realized I’d known who he was. I didn’t want to ruin that for either of us. Or for him to think I wanted something from him—expected something.

Back then I’d been coaching junior hockey. High level, but I was working to find my place in the sport. It was only a month later that I scored the job with the Ontario League. I made it here on my own merit.

Fee appears in the kitchen, phone in hand, dressed in all black, doing her best fair-haired Wednesday Addams impression. She used to wear bright colors and have the sunshiney personality to match, but the last year has been hard on her. I don’t get on her case, even though sometimes her “dark” phase worries me.

“Are you reading your Lord of the Rings fanfic?” I ask.

“My favorite author updated last night.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and tops mine up. “Oooh, look at the presentation on the parfaits. Mom could never even find the cereal.”

“Because someone always put it in the wrong place,” I add.

Our mom was the person to go shopping with, and she planned the best vacations, but her cooking skills started and ended with the microwave.

We both laugh until our eyes start to burn, and then she looks up to the ceiling. “Why are my feelings always on fire?”

“Hormones and grief, Fifi.” I give her a side hug and kiss her temple.

She shakes it off. “I’m fine. It’s too early to get sappy.” She makes the sign of the cross. “Miss you, Mom. Miss you, Dad.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, a photo memory came up this morning, and those always hit differently.”

I wish I could take her pain away, but it’s a power I don’t have. I wasn’t close with our mom the way she was. My pain is different than hers, a black void instead of a raw wound. “I’m sorry.”

“The only way forward is through. Any special instructions for Callie today? Practice as usual, right?”

“Yeah. Thank you. I know your schedule can be busy, and you want a social life, too.” I feel guilty that she has to pick up Callie from hockey practice most days.

“I can hang out with friends at lunch.” She points to the clock. “You need to get your ass in gear or you’ll be late, Coach.”

“Crap. Okay. See you for dinner. Text me your wishes, and I’ll pick up supplies on the way home.” I kiss her on the cheek, grab my messenger bag, slide my feet into my shoes, and head for the door. “Love you, Big Pheels!”

“Love you, too, Lex.”