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CHAPTER 27 - HIS SURRENDER
Tanggal publikasi:
2026-03-06 04:23:52
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PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE SIXTEEN - SPLITTING
His practice ended eight minutes early due to a scheduling conflict with the arena’s resurfacing crew, and the extra two minutes feel disproportionately exciting relative to the actual value.He walks through the door while I’m sitting at the counter, pretending to work on the manuscript that hasn’t moved past one sentence in eleven days. He crosses the kitchen with the post-practice energy that I used to love – the charged, physical hum of a body that’s been skating for two hours and hasn’t fully transitioned from athlete to civilian – and his mouth is on my neck before his bag hits the floor.“Twenty minutes,” he says against my skin, and it hits me that numbers have now become a unit of measurement in our marriage – a fixed quantity that defines the boundaries of what’s possible, and what’s possible in twenty minutes is his hands shoving my shorts down while I unzip his pants.In a flash, his cock is pushing into me against the counter, the jersey is still on and the coffee maker i
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE FIFTEEN - THERAPY
My editor calls on a Friday morning with a specific tiredness that sounds like she’s been defending me in rooms I’m not invited to and has run out of defences.“The publisher is pulling the contract if I don’t have pages by the end of the month,” she says slowly. “I’ve bought you every extension I can buy, Naomi. I’ve used every favour I have in that building. They want pages or they want the advance back.”The advance is already spent because the advance paid for six months of graduate housing and a security deposit and the textbooks and the workshop fees and the living expenses that allowed me to write a first book while my husband was building a career in a different city.The money that was supposed to buy me time to write the second book has been converted into rent and groceries and the matching dishware and the life I’m living inside while the book I’m supposed to be writing about that life sits on my laptop with one sentence and a blinking cursor.“I need another month.”“You
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE FOURTEEN - MY NAME
The sweatpants have a hole in the left knee and a pasta stain on the thigh from Tuesday’s dinner. They’re the ugliest thing I own and I’m wearing them on the couch at 9 PM while a woman in an emerald dress worth more than my advance has her hand on my husband’s arm in a photograph that fourteen thousand people have already liked.I watch the stories from the beginning because watching from the beginning is the thing my body does when my brain knows it shouldn’t – the same compulsion that made me read the comments under the Sasha restaurant post, the same instinct that makes people press on bruises to check if they still hurt, and they always still hurt, and I press anyway because the pressing is its own kind of information.Story one: the venue. Some ballroom with chandeliers and the specific golden lighting that makes every person in the frame look like they were born into a tax bracket I can’t pronounce.Story two: Rhys at a table with teammates, his tuxedo fitting him in a way that
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE THIRTEEN - ALONE
He’s home and conscious and horizontal on the couch with the remote in one hand and his other arm thrown across the back cushion in the invitation posture.I can tell that he is present and available just by the way he is seated and not checking his phone or mentally rehearsing answers for a media call. He is just lying on a couch and watching a movie he chose because he wanted to watch it and not because a PR calendar told him where to be.The normalcy of the scene is so beautiful that I sit beside him and put my hand on his thigh because I've been waiting for this exact moment and couch and evening for approximately nine days and I intend to make full use of it.His thigh is warm under my palm through his sweatpants, and I leave my hand there as I wait for the response – the shift, the subtle tension that travels through his quadricep when my hand lands in a place his body recognizes as a prelude.The response doesn’t come.My fingers press into the muscle slightly, the way I’ve pre
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TWELVE - TIME
He comes home at a normal hour on a Tuesday and the normalcy of it is so disorienting that I look up from the laptop in shock.5:43 PM.The door is opening at a time when doors are supposed to open, the keys landing on the counter in the spot where keys are supposed to land, his jacket hung on the hook instead of thrown over a chair because he’s not rushing. He’s not checking his phone or mentally partitioning the next forty minutes into blocks that belong to other people. He’s just HOME, in the kitchen, at a human hour, walking past my chair toward the fridge with the unhurried stride of a man who has an evening ahead of him instead of a schedule.I grab his waistband as he passes.My fingers hook into the fabric before my brain has formed a plan, the wanting arriving in my hand before it arrives in my head, because I haven’t touched him without a clock running in weeks and his body is RIGHT HERE moving past me at a pace that doesn’t require efficiency. The proximity of him combined
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE ELEVEN - WHERE I AM
The apartment has been empty for three days. It’s settled into the furniture and the walls. The hum of the refrigerator is louder than it has any right to be, and the clock above the stove is ticking with the authority of an appliance that knows it’s the only thing in the room still performing its function.Five-day road trip. West coast swing. And the schedule that was already partitioned into blocks that belonged to other people has now been physically removed from the same time zone. Which means the twenty-minute windows that used to produce rushed counter sex and stolen garlic bread have been replaced by phone calls that happen at 11 PM his time when his voice sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel and his brain is operating at approximately thirty percent capacity.I call him from the bed at eleven because eleven is the window we agreed on and the agreement is the only structure holding the distance together.“Hey.” His voice is somewhere between exhaustion and unconsciousne
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