O Goalie Night (The Ottawa Otters #1)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

BETH

I should buy him a present.

Wait, is that a weird post-orgasm thought?

Regardless of the answer to that question, my feelings remain the same. After the most intense climax of my life, my first impulse is to buy Foster James a fruit basket. Or maybe a house plant.

I’ve had men go down on me before, it always felt like an obligation on their part. With Foster, it felt like there was nothing else he’d rather be doing.

“Hey.” Foster cups my cheek, gently guiding my gaze to meet his. Still kneeling in front of me, he looks me over, quietly assessing me. “You okay?”

I’m great. Never better. Just mentally shopping for a “thank you” present to give you for making me come so hard.

“Of course,” I insist. My heart rate has returned to a regular rhythm and my body is cooling down rapidly. Which is fine except that my skin is damp with perspiration and, well, I’m almost completely naked. I start to shiver and I can’t stop .

“Are you cold?” Foster doesn’t wait for me to answer. He finds his long sleeve shirt on the floor and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

“That’s not necessary,” I argue, pulling it on because I am in fact freezing. I’m not swimming in the shirt; I’m drowning in it.

Way to be sexy, Beth.

“Come on,” he says, scooping me up into his arms and starting down the hall.

Wait, what? I don’t want tonight, for whatever this is, to be over yet. The thought of Foster tucking me in like I’m a little one who’s stayed up back their bedtime is humiliating and I’m about to protest, but he walks right by my room and into his.

I’ve gotten glimpses of his bedroom before while I walked by it, but I’ve never actually been inside. A king-sized bed, neatly made with crisp, charcoal-grey sheets and a heavy, navy-blue duvet, sits in the centre of the room. A pair of sleek, black nightstands flank the bed, each holding a minimalist lamp with warm, soft lighting. The walls are painted a deep slate grey, adding to the room’s simple decor.

It’s orderly and no-nonsense. In other words, it’s Foster.

He pulls the comforter back and sets me down in the middle of the bed, climbing in after me and pulling the blanket over both of us. Gathering me against his bare chest, I snuggle against him, basking not only in his warmth but the mere feel of him.

His body is the definition of firm, yet his skin is so soft. I run my fingers over him, revelling in his reactions to my touch. They’re subtle; the slight tensing of muscle or faint hitch in his breath but they’re there. Part of me still can’t believe that this is real. That I’m the one doing this to him.

“Better?” he asks as his hand slips inside my shirt to stroke my bare back and I almost purr.

The best.

“Much.”

I continue to touch him because I need to. From the moment his lips touched mine, I’ve been all sensation and I can’t seem to get enough.

When my hand slips under the waistband of the jeans he’s still wearing, he groans against the top of my head.

“I think you should take these off,” I say as I unbutton them and start on the zipper.

“Do you?” He chuckles, but it’s strained. I think he’s enjoying my teasing, but it’s torture all the same.

“Absolutely,” I press a soft kiss to his abdomen as I move my hands lower. “Circulation is very important when you sleep so loose clothing is better.” Or none at all.

His lips quirk into a lopsided smile. “Is that what we’re going to do, Beth? Sleep?”

“Eventually.”

Before I can go further, he gently tugs my ponytail, pulling my face back to his. His kiss is deeper than before. Slower and yet, somehow, more urgent. His mouth moves on mine until I’m in some sort of a trance, unable to remember what I was attempting to do in the first place.

His hands push the shirt he draped me in above my waist before pausing. “Warm enough to take this off?”

My body is an inferno and this man is the source of the fire. I nod and he strips the shirt off of me in one swift motion, tossing it to the floor. The cute lacy bra I ordered online is the next to go, leaving me naked and trembling with anticipation.

But he makes me wait as he looks me over. He doesn’t lay a finger or any other body part on me, much to my dismay.

And I let him look, not embarrassed or self-conscious about my nakedness. He made his feelings about how he sees me very clear on the couch.

You. Are. Beautiful.

It wasn’t the first time a man told me I was beautiful, but it was the first time one made me believe it. I felt it when he looked at me. The sureness of the words as he spoke them matched with the sincerity shining in his eyes.

Those same eyes are even more hooded with lust, never leaving me as he stands and pushes his jeans and boxers briefs to the floor.

Now I’m the one gawking. Granted, I haven’t seen that many penises in the flesh–literally and figuratively. But the sculpted God of a man that’s crawling towards me on the bed appears to be larger than average…everywhere.

Laying back on the bed, he positions himself over me, bracing his weight on his forearms and my mind chooses this moment to fracture, a million thought fragments swirling around in my brain like a tornado of doubts.

Foster has already exceeded my expectations, but what if I don’t meet his? What if this changes things between us? The effortless friendship we’ve spent the last month developing has meant a lot to me and after tonight it won’t ever be the same.

Or what if it is? What if we wake up and act like nothing happened? Can I handle that? Hookups might be par for the course for Foster, but I don’t think I’m going to pretend that I feel nothing after feeling so much.

Foster’s green eyes almost glow in the dimly lit room. “I have a confession to make.”

Here we go. He’s got a wife in every NHL province and state. I fucking knew it.

“Oh?” I try to keep my tone neutral, which is difficult considering a large, naked man is on top of me about to tell me something I probably won’t like.

He clears his throat. “It’s, uh, it’s been a while.”

I narrow my eyes as if seeing him clearer will make me understand.

“What’s been a while?”

“Since I’ve…since I’ve been with anyone.”

I stare up at him, not sure how to react. He’s a professional athlete. I’m sure his idea of a drought is a lot different than the rest of the population. “How long?”

He swallows. “Eight months.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear.”

I search his face for deception and find none. Not that he’d have a reason to lie to me, but still. He’s Foster James. There are Tik Tok thirst trap reels of him that have gone beyond viral. I’ve got a couple saved on my phone. Given the man’s options, why would he abstain for so long?

He looks nervous as he awaits my response.

“Foster,” I hedge, attempting my best deadpan. “Are you bad at sex?”

His face breaks into the most beautiful grin as he lets out a bark of laughter.

“It’s okay if you are,” I fight to keep a straight face as he buries his face in my neck. “You’re good at lots of other things.”

When he finally manages to stop shaking with laughter, he speaks again. “I hooked up plenty during the first few years of my career. I just got tired.”

“Of sex?”

“Of the scene. Forcing conversations with women I didn’t care about. Women who didn’t care about me. There were no feelings involved. No trust.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

His intense gaze holds mine and I can’t look away. “I care about you, Beth. A lot. I need you to know that before we go any further.”

My heart pounds in my chest and it’s beating only for him. He’s made me feel beautiful and now so special and cared for.

“I care about you, too,” I breathe. “And I trust you.”

“I trust you, too. Completely.”

“I promise not to tell anyone you’re bad at sex.”

His low growl rumbles in his chest as he pushes himself off of me. I miss the warmth and pressure of his body immediately.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I watch him disappear into the ensuite bathroom. He doesn’t leave me waiting long, reappearing a moment later, a square, foil wrapper in his hand.

“Helping you get your facts straight.” He opens the packet, rolling the condom onto himself with quick precision.

Clasping my ankles, he drags me closer to him and then kneels on the bed between my spread legs. I’m almost vibrating with need as he strokes the inside of my thighs, my hips attempting to levitate up to meet him.

“Eager looks good on you, Baby,” he chuckles, leaning his large frame over me, pinning me down.

I’m holding my breath as he lines himself up with my slick entrance, waiting for him to fill me. Instead, he takes one of my nipples in his mouth and sucks, causing a wave of pleasure to race down my spine. I’m downright writhing beneath him as he continues to kiss and lick at my aching breasts.

My arousal is all-consuming. I’ve never felt a need like this before. It doesn’t matter that I had an orgasm a half hour ago; I’m desperate to come again.

“Foster,” I pant, trembling underneath him. “Foster, please.”

At my pleading tone, his mouth releases me and his head snaps up. He gives me a look that my sex-starved mind can only interpret as complete adoration before sliding into me.

“Ohhhhh God, Foster.”

Full. I am so full.

Foster’s strong jaw flexes and his neck muscles strain, but he holds himself perfectly still. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was in pain, but I know he’s just as far gone as I am.

On an exhale, he rocks his hips tentatively against mine, causing me to moan loudly.

“I know, Baby.” He takes one of my knees and hooks it around him. “I’ve got you.”

And then he starts to move in sure, steady thrusts as I grip his shoulders tightly.

I barely recognize my own voice or the unintelligible words streaming from my mouth. They intertwine with Foster’s groans in the hottest harmony I’ve ever heard.

Before long, I feel myself tightening around him.

“Beth,” he rasps, quickening his pace. “Your perfect little pussy is fucking ruining me.”

My climax crests so suddenly, it takes me by surprise. I let out a strangled cry as I’m wracked by uncontrollable shudders.

“Jesus, Beth, that was…so…fucking–” Foster’s sentence is cut off by his own shattering release. We cling to each other, a couple of shivering messes, as he buries his face in my neck.

“Fucking ruined,” he murmurs against my damp skin.

That makes two of us.