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SEVENTEEN - PROTECTION
公開日:
2026-07-24 07:28:33
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PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE EIGHTEEN - FAKE BLOG
I’ve been sitting on the cold kitchen floor for eleven minutes on a random weekday with my back against the cabinet and my knees pulled up.The linoleum is pressing through my sweatpants with an unforgiving chill that reminds me it was never designed for human habitation, but at the same time, it has become the place where every honest conversation in my marriage happens.The dishonesty of the last three months has been accumulating in my chest.He’s beside me. Same position. His shoulder against the cabinet next to mine, close enough that I can feel his body heat through both our sleeves without the sleeves actually touching.He came home from practice and found me on the floor and didn’t ask why, just walked across the kitchen and slid down the cabinet and sat because he’s learned the geography of this marriage well enough to know that the floor means truth and truth means sitting and sitting means waiting until the words are ready to come out in the order they need to arrive.I go
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE SEVENTEEN - PROTECTION
Sasha orders a black coffee with oat milk and no sugar.I know because I’ve been sitting across from her for seven minutes watching her interact with the barista with the easy, practiced warmth of a woman whose job requires being likeable to strangers, and I see that she truly has been doing it long enough that the performance has fused with the personality until neither she nor the barista can tell the difference.We’re at a coffee shop in a neighbourhood where neither of us lives because the arrangement has rules about public visibility and two of those rules are “avoid locations frequented by sports media” and “don’t be photographed together without coordinated styling,” and the absurdity of two grown women choosing a coffee shop based on the probability of being seen by a blogger with a telephoto lens is the kind of detail I would put in the novel if the novel weren’t dying on my laptop one blinking cursor at a time.She stirs her coffee and looks at me with the clear-eyed directn
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
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