Grumpy Puck

13. Michael

Chapter 13

Michael

F ucking fuck. I’m not sure who I’m angrier at: the two of us for deciding to kiss without cameras, or the driver for interrupting it.

“We’re here.” Calliope touches her luscious lips and clears her throat. “Which is probably for the best.”

“Yeah. We shouldn’t have done that.” It’s like eating chocolate-covered bacon—tastes good in the moment but has detrimental effects on your heart.

Calliope’s nostrils flare. “We definitely shouldn’t have. What were we thinking?”

I blow out a breath. “You just said maybe it’s for the best that?—”

“And it is. We should only do things like that when someone is watching. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“I fucking concur.” Nearly breaking the limo door, I get out and then let my frustration out by snapping at the limo driver and the porter who try to help with Calliope’s suitcase.

The fucking media people are here, taking pictures as I carry said suitcase inside.

“Is this why you insist on carrying my stuff?” she asks as we step into the hotel. “For the pictures?”

“Yeah,” I grit out. “I can only do something nice in a cold-hearted, calculated manner.”

“Please. You’re not doing it as a nice gesture. It’s just macho posturing.”

I decide to be the adult and not reply, which may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Instead, I stride over to the nearest concierge, make sure the rat carrier is not in her sight, and give her our names.

“Ah, right.” She grins conspiratorially. “We know who the two of you are, so we upgraded your room.” She hands me and Calliope two passkeys and explains how to get to the room in question. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” She accompanies the last two words with a slight waggle of her drawn-on-with-pencil eyebrows.

Fuck. Until now, I’ve tried to put the fact that we’re sharing a room out of my mind, but the concierge’s insinuation—or whatever that was—brings me back to the reality of this situation.

We’re going to be breathing the same air. Calliope is going to be in the same shower as?—

“Excuse me?” Calliope snaps. “Why did you say ‘enjoy it’ like that?”

The concierge turns beet red. “Because you’re going to have an amazing view? And the?—”

“Don’t bother.” Calliope heads for the elevator without waiting to see if I will follow, and I have to sprint to make it before the doors close.

“Stupid ‘close door’ button doesn’t work,” Calliope mutters, seemingly to Wolfgang.

“Very mature,” I reply.

Calliope huffs, and we ride to the top floor in silence. A silence that’s maintained all the way to the ornate door of our room.

It’s not until we step inside that we resume talking—assuming a stream of curses qualifies as such.

“They gave us a honeymoon suite,” Calliope says after she runs out of cuss words. Since she speaks only one language, her vocabulary is much more limited in this regard than mine.

I glare at the giant four-poster bed covered in rose petals. “There had better be another place for one of us to sleep.”

Her eyes widen, and she runs toward a nearby door.

“That’s a bathroom,” she says and checks the other door. “And that’s a closet.”

“So… just one fucking bed?” Given the size of the suite, there could have been another bed in here, but someone put in a useless open dining area instead. There’s also a jacuzzi, but sleeping in one is a drowning risk.

“Screw that.” She rushes out of the room and back into the elevator, again so fast it’s an effort to keep up.

Marching over to the same concierge, she demands we get the original room that was booked for us.

“But why?” The concierge stares at us in confusion. “Your new room is the best one we’ve got.”

“Because she said so,” I growl.

The concierge blanches. “I’m sorry. Your original room is no longer available.”

“Fine. Give us another room—with two separate beds,” Calliope demands. “Or two rooms.”

The concierge takes a step back. “I’m sorry. We’re the closest hotel to the stadium, and with the game coming up, there are no rooms available.”

“Then we’ll go to another hotel,” Calliope threatens.

“It’s nine p.m.,” the concierge says. “And the game is tomorrow. Your chances of finding a room are slim to none.”

“Also, there’s no we, ” I say bluntly. “I’m not going to another hotel.”

Calliope whips around to face me. “You’re not?”

“I have to go to sleep early the night before a game.”

In fact, I plan to call it a night in about an hour.

“Fine,” Calliope grits out and rushes back to the fucking suite.

I follow her there.

She stalks from wall to wall, examining our accommodations like another bed might be hiding in plain sight.

“You realize the concierge could tell some journalist about that incident,” I tell her. “And that it could start a rumor that we’ve broken up?”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you saying you want to sleep in the same bed?”

“No,” I growl. “But who said we have to? I’m fine sleeping on the floor.”

She looks down like she’s never seen floors before, then shakes her head. “You’re not going to get any sleep that way.”

“It’s fine. I’ve slept in much worse conditions.” Hell, there’s a rug here, something that would have seemed like a luxury back in?—

“You’ve got a game tomorrow,” she reminds me.

Fuck.

I cross my arms over my chest. “There’s no way you’re sleeping on the floor while I’m on the bed.”

“We can share it then,” she says. “But no funny business.”

“Funny business?”

Is she blushing, or are her cheeks red with anger? “No sex,” she elaborates. “No touching. No kissing.”

I shrug. “You don’t have to worry about that. I always stay abstinent the night before a game.”

Not to mention, I don’t sleep with coworkers, or stubborn women who are as infuriating as?—

“How fortuitous.” Her words drip with sarcasm. “I take my mascot duties very seriously, so I avoid sex before a game too. I also abstain from speaking with assholes.”

With that, she strides toward the bathroom, her hips swaying as if she’s trying to get me to notice how amazing her ass is.

And it is fucking amazing. Magnificent, really. I’m not the type to write poetry, but if I were, I’d dedicate a sonnet to this ass.

She locks the door, and I hear the shower come on.

Fuck me. All I can think of is that she’s naked in there, hot water running down her body, that curvy ass sudsy and?—

Great. Now I’m painfully hard and can’t do anything about it. The pre-game abstinence is about not coming, so jerking off is as much off the table as sex.

After what feels like hours, she comes out of the bathroom, wearing a hotel robe.

“Wolfgang,” she says to one of her rats. “Can you tell Michael to not be here as I change into my PJs?”

“Seriously?” I grab a pair of clean boxers, stomp over to the bathroom, and slam the door.

Fucking hell. The place smells like clean feminine flesh, and it makes me even harder—which I didn’t think was possible.

I turn the faucet all the way to cold, undress, and step into the shower.

Damn. The last time I was this cold was back in Novosibirsk—and the worst part is that the shower isn’t helping on the erection front. Not at all.

Well, I’ll just stand here longer.

I wait until I’m shivering, which is when the erection subsides a bit.

Thank fuck.

I get out, brush my teeth, and pull on my boxers.

“Hey, Wolfgang,” I shout before opening the door. “Is Calliope decent?”

No reply. Not even a rat squeak.

“I’m coming out.”

No one raises any objections.

When I open the door, the suite is dimly lit. The blinds are closed, blocking all the lights generated by the City That Never Sleeps, but a small lamp in the corner is turned on.

Worried I might step on Wolfgang or one of the others, I use my phone as additional illumination.

“What’s with the high beams?” Calliope grumbles sleepily.

I make the mistake of looking her way and spot a delicate shoulder sticking out of the covers. All the hard work in the cold shower is undone in an instant, the monster erection returning with a vengeance.

“You’re in the middle,” I point out, my voice a bit too husky. “If we’re sharing the bed, you’ll have to pick a side.”

Even her disgruntled huff is sexy as she moves to the right side of the bed.

I get in from the left, staying as close to the edge as possible.

All right. If I want to put Tugev in his place, I had better fall asleep, and quickly.

Easier said than done. Knowing that Calliope is here, within my reach, is driving my libido insane.

Fuck. According to the nightstand clock, I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour, with nothing to show for it.

Has my dick been hard this whole time, or does it only stiffen when I pay attention to it? It is up and ready now. At the end of Viagra commercials, they warn you to seek medical help if you have a boner that lasts more than four hours, so I’ve got to be careful.

Maybe counting will help me forget how blue my balls are?

Nope. When I get to the number eight, I end up picturing the digit lying on its side, and the visual reminds me of Calliope’s sweet ass. Pushing through anyway, I officially give up on number sixty-nine.

Counting is just too sexy of an activity.

I need to think of something else. Sometimes I imagine the way a game will play out in my head as a hybrid between guided imagery and mental practice. So I do this, and it goes well at first, but then I picture Calliope’s reactions and the various mascot shenanigans she’d pull on me, and I become more alert… and, weirdly, even harder.

Fucking hell. Maybe I should attempt that progressive muscle relaxation technique the sport psychologist taught the whole team as a way to deal with stress. At the time, I thought they were all pansies for listening to the lecture intently, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Trying to remember how to do it, I flex my biceps and triceps, then let them relax.

Hmm. It feels nice, so I do the same with my other muscles, and get sleepier and sleepier until around the time I relax my glutes—which is when a dainty hand lands on my now-relaxed ass.

What the fuck?

I’m wide awake again, but Calliope’s breathing is slow and even.

She’s copping a feel in her sleep.

Fuck me.

This time around, progressive muscle relaxation doesn’t help, so I practice another technique that was taught to us by that same shrink: deep breathing. I inhale air all the way down to my throbbing dick, then exhale it slowly. My next breath is slower and deeper, and the one after that even more so.

Eventually, I start to drift off—and of course, this is when Calliope drapes herself over me, like the world’s sexiest scarf.

I freeze, not daring to move. She smells so fucking good. And she’s so warm and soft. And is that a plump breast pushing against my side?

Oh, fuck. I’m going to blow if I don’t move away this very second.

But I don’t move.

I can’t.

I should.

Fuck, I really need to.

I drag in a breath, gather all my willpower, and gently extricate myself from underneath her sleeping, soft, feminine form.

Panting like I’ve just skated around the rink fifty times, I flop onto my back and attempt to restart the deep breathing exercises. I throw in muscle relaxation as well and visualize myself winning tomorrow’s game.

I don’t know how much time passes or which technique works, but finally, I go under.

“Hey,” says a sensual voice inside my dream. “You’re on top of me.”

I open my eyes to the dimly lit room.

Fuck.

On top of her is maybe an exaggeration, but I am spooning her, with my arm wrapped around her body, my palm cupping her soft breast, and my very hard dick pressed against the perfection that is her ass.

Gritting my teeth, I pull away. “I didn’t wake you when you draped yourself all over me.”

She rolls over to face me, eyes glinting. “I did no such thing.”

“You also touched my ass,” I growl. “And I didn’t wake you up at that point either.”

“Touched your ass?” She scoffs. “In your dreams.”

Wet dreams, for sure. Fuck. I can’t think in that direction. “Can I get some sleep now? I’ve got a big game tomorrow.”

“I’m a mascot at that same game.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “Sure. Those are equally demanding jobs.”

She scoots closer and jabs a finger in my face. “My job is just as important as yours.”

I grab her wrist before she can poke my eyes out—depth perception is pretty important in hockey. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” she shouts. “You’re unbearable.”

A bear reference after I told her why they bother me so much?

I see white.

And red.

And pink.

Specifically, pink, plump lips speaking words that I no longer hear.

Drawn by a force more potent than gravity, I lean in and shut her up with a kiss.