Brenna

Los Angeles is overrated. I'm not a fan of the city. There's too much smog and noise. It makes me long for home.

What I am a fan of, though, is the excitement buzzing in the air. Tonight is the NHL Draft. Up until yesterday evening, at the airport here, I hadn't seen Shea for a few months. Our reunion was sweet, with no hint of awkwardness. I also got to see Chelsea and Noah.

We decided to arrive three days prior to the draft to have some fun. We went to Disneyland for a day, visited some beaches, and whatever else tourists do when they visit Los Angeles. While it's been enjoyable, I do miss the region of British Columbia. Being beside Shea is making this trip tolerable, though.

And so are the rumours circulating. Shea's in the top five with KJ, John O'Connor, Vladislav Kovalenko, and Justin Lewis. The standings are close this year, and everyone, including the analysts are waging their guesses. No one can pinpoint who will be picked first. These five players have set the bar high for skills, determination, and work ethic in their respected fields on their respected teams.

The anticipation is killing me.

While I want to see Shea be picked first overall, there's a pinch of doubt residing in my gut. Through an analyst's point of view, I'd place my money on KJ being drafted first. He had an explosive season with the University of Alberta, collecting ninety points that favoured goals. He's been on the radar for quite some time.

I'm not saying KJ's worked harder. Shea's been working his ass off in Boston. All I'm saying is that statistically speaking, KJ is the better option for a first pick. Shea likes to set up goals for his teammates. KJ likes to put the puck in the net. A team will choose who has more goals before assists.

Also, Montréal has the first round draft pick. While Shea would be happy with that team, I know which one he wants. He wants to be picked third by Vancouver. He's been a fan of that team his whole life, with players like Daniel and Henrik Sedin, Pavel Bure, and Markus Näslund as his idols. He wants to follow in their footsteps.

Standing in front of the mirror, I apply a thin streak of eyeliner to my eyes. Then I paint my lips a deep matte red. Aside from the red lipstick, my makeup is simple. There's no point in applying expensive makeup. Shea and I both know how the night will end. We're too young to drink in the USA, but the tension between us is enough to make us drunk. I could feel it when he welcomed me at the airport. During breakfast this morning when he continued to stroke my thigh beneath the table. Or the way his lips lingered on my cheek when we said goodbye to get ready for tonight.

When the clock strikes midnight, we'll be in his hotel room, sweaty and breathless.

As I'm fluffing my hair, trying to give it more volume, there's a knock on my door.

Every muscle in my stomach clenches. That should be Shea. He said he was picking me up early before the draft so we could grab a quick bite to eat.

Running my hands through my hair one more time, I grab my clutch from the bed and head for the door. I loiter in front of it for several seconds. I don't want to appear too eager. In that time, I take a few deep breaths to calm myself.

Then I open the door.

Standing in the hallway, beneath the gaudy lighting, is Shea Smith.

He's wearing a black suit with a white dress shirt beneath. And a red tie that matches my lipstick. His dress shoes are polished, reflecting the light.

My gaze travels from his shoes to his handsome face. He's grinning at me, trying to prevent a prominent smile from breaking through. The stubble along his jaw is trimmed down to a five o'clock shadow and his hair is slicked back, save for a few strands curled against his forehead.

"Bren," he says. "Ready? We have to go or else we'll be late for our reservations."

Heat spreads through my cheeks as I look down, double-checking my purse to make sure I have my room key. I won't need it until tomorrow morning.

After a few seconds, I feel the cool plastic tucked away in my wallet. Then I look up at Shea, smiling. "We can go."

His grin morphs into a smile as he threads his fingers through mine and pulls me flush against his body. All I can smell is laundry detergent and his cologne. It's intoxicating, and it becomes more prominent when he tightens his strong arms around my body.

He leans down and whispers, "I've been waiting for this day."

Shea ends his sentence by nipping at my ear.

Shivers radiate down my spine, and they don't stop until Shea and I are tucked in the back of a limousine, heading for the restaurant where our reserved table is.

At that point, while we're sitting in the back, all I can feel is adrenaline.

*  *  *

"On behalf of the Montréal organization, we would first like the thank the Los Angeles Kings for their warm welcome and being great hosts. We would also like to shoutout to the fans. Montréal would like to select with their first pick, from the University of Alberta, Kaleb Jones."

KJ's parents whoop and cheer, and so do Shea, Chelsea, Noah, and I. Shea's mom claps, giving KJ a polite nod—she's anticipating the drafting of her son, so she's still anxious.

KJ climbs to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket up. He's wearing a charcoal-grey suit with a ligher grey tie, which he smooths out before turning to Shea. They exchange a hug, clapping each other on the back. Then he turns to his parents and exchanges hugs with them.

I'm on the other side of Shea, which makes it difficult for KJ to hug me. Which is why he doesn't. Instead, he smiles and gives me the two-finger salute. I relay the same actions back to him. We'll hug it out later. Right now, he needs to saunter up to that stage and accept his new jersey.

Watching the process is awe-inspiring, and it reminds me of my upcoming shot on Canada's women's hockey team for the Olympics. That moment when you achieve something you've been working for since you were a kid... it's surreal.

While KJ pulls on his jersey, I glance at Shea. His hazel eyes are focused on KJ, and his face expresses nothing but pride. However, I can tell he's stressed. His knee won't stop moving; it continues to bounce up and down with each passing second. Being drafted by Vancouver isn't guaranteed. Florida, the next team up in the draft, could choose him next. Or the Vancouver could choose a different player.

Resting my hand on his thigh, I give him a reassuring squeeze. He shoots me a feeble grin, and I note the faint hint of blush spreading across his cheeks. This is a big day for Shea. And while I admire his humble demeanour, I can empathize with him. Being chosen to play for Team Canada was similar, and I think Shea's still feeling a little numb. As if he can't believe this is happening.

After KJ's finished, they set up for the next drafting sequence. Florida's general manager steps up to the podium and clears his throat. Then his voice echoes across the large arena.      

The humbleness doesn't fade from Shea's face as Justin Lewis climbs the stairs to receive his Florida jersey.

I take his hand, giving it a squeeze. Third. He has to be chosen. This is the team he wants. Being born and raised in British Columbia, there's no better team to play for. He laces his fingers through mine and returns the squeeze. In his gesture, I can feel the eagerness and the nerves.

All I can do is pray to the hockey gods that Shea'll be picked next. After all the shit he's dealt with in his life... After committing to being a better person... He deserves this. To play for the team he grew up loving.

My chest feels tight as the Vancouver organization gets set up. There's a small crowd on the stage now. One woman has the jersey slung over her arm, hiding the name on the back. It makes me gnaw on my cheek. That jersey has to bear the name Smith on the back. It has to.

Because drafts are repetitive, the general manager clears his throat.

I suck in a deep breath.

Shea adjusts his posture.

Somewhere, KJ is watching this. Whether it's from behind the curtains or the lower seating area or on a TV screen, I'm not sure. Either way, I know he's watching.

"First off, the Vancouver organization would like to thank Los Angeles for their generosity. We have enjoyed our time in the city, and are looking forward to returning in the regular season to see how our bright young stars have improved. Also, a warm thank-you to the fans for supporting us—our games would be nothing without you. Finally, with our third-round pick, we would like to select, from the University of Boston, Shea Smith."

The crowd roars around us, including Chelsea, Shea's mom, and KJ's parents.

Shea and I stay silent for several seconds.

The squeal that escapes my mouth is drowned out by the crowd, but I know Shea hears it. Despite the smile on his face, he cringes as I throw my arm around him. One hand slides to my lower back, holding me flush against his body. His breath is hot on my cheek, and his cologne is even stronger. It makes my head feel dizzy.

I don't let the hug last too long. Somewhere, the camera is on Shea and I, and this is being displayed on national television. Plus, he needs to get up on that stage. If I keep hugging him, he'll lose the chance to exchange hugs with his mom and sister before accepting his jersey.

While he's doing that, I try to ignore the empty seat next to Chelsea.

Shea's father was supposed to be here tonight.

And I find it devastatingly ironic how the man who pushed Shea, in a toxic fashion, I may add, to further his hockey skills didn't show up. Whether or not his lack of presence is affecting Shea remains to be seen. Ever since high school graduation, Shea's had minimal contact with his father and step-mom. And not because Shea doesn't want a relationship with his father. It's because his father continues to refuse counselling sessions together. A lot of damage was done to their relationship during high school, and Shea feels they need a moderator to sort things out.

Yet no matter how many times Shea asks, his father continues to decline.

Personally, I think Shea should've avoided inviting his father to the draft. That scumbag doesn't deserve shit from his son. But I do admire Shea for trying to be the bigger person

With one last glance over his shoulder, one reserved for me, Shea walks down the carpeted walkway to the stage giving him his future.

*  *  *

It's close to midnight by the time Shea and I return to the hotel.

We're underage, so our stumbling isn't a result of drinking too much. It's a result of tonight's events. When everything falls into place, it feels like the world is on your side. Tonight's been the perfect night, and I have a feeling it's about to get better.

Shea and I haven't seen each other in months. Every time we do, the tension between us becomes tauter. Right now, it feels like it's ready to snap. His grip, fingers laced through mine, is firm. Even as he swipes the card key through the scanner and the lock clicks. As he pushes the door open and we enter his hotel room.

It's dark, save for the city lights filtering through the thin curtains. There's a hint of cologne and cleaning product in the air. The scent and lack of lighting make my mind feel hazier. Predicting where this night will go isn't difficult. All night, KJ was poking fun at us; he was teasing Shea about buying condoms and me about the future of my dress. Every cell in my body has been charged with want and need since I arrived in Los Angeles.

Shea does that to me. He has this consequential magnetic force. No matter how many times I tell myself putting distance between us is best, my body and mind fail to cooperate with my heart. Everything about him lures me in: his smile, his touch, his wandering gaze. The broadness of his shoulders and the stubble along his jaw. His smart-assery and cocky smirk. The kindess he carries in his heart.

The careless way he shrugs his shoulders

After we've kicked off our shoes, hands still intertwined, Shea leads me dow the short hallway, to the king-sized bed. The sheets are untouched, pillows crisp and straight. A delicate smirk encompasses my lips as I eye them. After Shea and I are through with each other, that bed will be a disaster. The sheets will be a tangled mess and pillows will be strewn across the hardwood floor.

Near the foot of the bed, Shea pauses and steps back. He removes his suit jacket, tossing it atop the table by the window. Then he's loosening his tie and the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Beneath, I see the hard planes of his muscles and the faint dusting of chest hair. Pale, slightly freckled skin.

He runs a hand through his hair, giving it a tousled look.

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, casting my gaze to the floor. Seeing a hardwood floor in a hotel room is strange, but I welcome the new design. Nothing grosses me out more than carpeted flooring in public spaces. I can't imagine the accumulation of germs—or how often a deep clean occurs.

Shea clears his throat. "Do you, uh, want a drink?"

My gaze flicks to his picturesque form. His thumb points over his shoulder, to the small desk and chair lodged in the corner. Two small bottles, one of gin and one of tonic, sit there. Beside it are two glasses. How Shea managed to get alcohol is the question of the evening, but words falter on my tongue. Whether his mom bought him a bottle or he asked someone to bootleg for him, this is an important moment. We need to make a toast. To drink.

I nod.

Pressing his lips together, Shea nods. Then he turns around and rolls his sleeves up. Soon, the room is filled with clinking glass and liquid sloshing in bottles. I cross my arms, trying to rub away the goosebumps skittering across my biceps. I sit on the foot of the bed. The anticipation is killing me. With every passing moment, my gut becomes tighter with anxiety. Having sex with She doesn't make me nervous. He's the one I want. My everything.

What makes me nervous is the process of sex itself. While Shea and I have fooled around, we haven't had sex yet. What if it hurts? What if he's too big?

Okay, maybe having sex with Shea does scare me a little. The size of his package... damn.

But I still want him so bad.

Once the drinks are done, Shea turns around and hands me a glass. I thank him, taking a sip. Then another.

We continue to sip our drinks in silence. Shea's face gives no hints as to what he's thinking. Which is the route my mind is taking. Is he thinking about me? About tonight's events? Hockey?

Something needs to be said. To break this godforsaken silence.

"How are you doing? Is being a professional hockey player now difficult to wrap your head around?"

His lips pull to one side in a half-smile. "Surreal. Very surreal. Honestly, it feels like it didn't happen. I'm still trying to process everything."

"Understandable," I smile. I nod at my drink. "Excellent way to celebrate."

This time, his face gives away clues. His jaw is set, and his hazel eyes are burning with desire. "I could think of better ways to celebrate."

"Is that so?"

One eyebrow arches in question. "What do you want to do tonight?"

I swallow the lump in my throat, willing myself to speak. I take another sip of my drink. "Everything, Shea. I want to do everything with you."

My knuckles are white as I grip my drink. My breath is caught in my chest. I'm waiting for his answer.

He tosses back the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass on the table. With confidence in his stride, he saunters over to me and removes the glass from my hand. There's little left in my glass, but he tosses the rest of it back.

Soon, two empty glasses sit on the table, forgotten.

When Shea rejoins me at the foot of the bed, he pushes my thighs apart and steps between them. From there, he tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him. He searches my face, those hazel eyes darkened with lust.

"What are the limitations, Bren? Things you're comfortable with?" He drags his thumb across my jawbone, sending shivers down my spine. "Personally, you can do whatever you want to me. I welcome your touch everywhere, Bren. This... I've been waiting years for this. I'm at your mercy. Bend my will. Lead me on. Destroy me."

"M-me too," I stutter. "I... Shea... please."

One simple word causes the fire to finally ignite.

Shea hikes my dress up, pooling it around my hips. My hands tangle in the fabric, keeping it situated around my waist. Cool air kisses my exposed lower body. With the dress acting as a second skin, it wasn't rational to wear underwear. There's nothing worse than lines through the fabric.

Shea groans at the sight of me. No blush spreads across my cheeks. No shyness fills my chest. Instead, my body yearns for him.

After a brief connection between our gazes, Shea kneels between my legs. He's gripping my thighs, his thumbs caressing the sensitive inner skin. His jaw works as his hungry gaze rakes over my body.

As he hikes one leg over his shoulder, and then buries his face between my legs.

"Fuck," I gasp, throwing my head back in abandon.

Shea's tongue is detrimental to my well-being.

He swirls his tongue, licking and sucking while holding my writhing hips in place. His teeth graze my sensitive clit before he dips his tongue inside of me. I try to buck my hips, but his grip is firm. My knuckles are white as I grip my dress. As if it's the edge of a cliff, and my life depends on that ledge.

Every movement of his tongue is purposeful. Every graze of his teeth sends a jolt of heat through my blood. 

"Shea," I plead.

He slides his tongue back to my clit, and then begins to suck on it. Tremors of pleasure radiate down my spine, and tension is added to the fragile knot building in my stomach.

Without warning, he slips two fingers inside of me, arching them, hitting that aching spot.

"Shea!"

The orgasm tears me apart. It disassociates my body from my mind, making me feel high. I'm unaware of Shea climbing to his feet. Licking his lips. Unaware of my back being pressed against the mattress. The wetness between my legs. Or the sound of Shea's belt being undone.

My head is full of stars. Body of liquid heat. I feel as though I've just had a five-hour massage while being high.

It takes several more seconds for my conscious mind to return. Propping myself on my elbows, I see Shea unzipping his dress pants. A condom rests beside me, the foil glinting in the light.

Having Shea bend me over the bed and fuck me senseless haunts me in my dreams. But in order for that dream to come true, I want no barriers, aside from the condom, between us.

Feeling drunk on the afterglow, I climb to my feet. "My dress needs to come off."

Shea's hands freeze at his hips, leaving the prominent bulge straining against his dress pants. He looks me over. Nods. "You're right. Turn around."

His voice is demanding but respectful. A small smile spreads across my lips as I turn around, holding my hair up. I can't blame Shea for being impatient. That bulge behind his pants speaks multitudes.

Shea fumbles with the zipper of my dress.

"Fuck," he curses. "It's snagged."

My arm is staring to ache from holding my hair up. "Try zipping it back up, then tug it down again."

Instead, Shea's hands grab either side of the zipper. Then he wrenches them apart. The sound of tearing fabric fills the room. A shiver radiates down my spine as cold air kisses my back. As the remnants of my strapless dress slide down my body and pool around my ankles.

I drop my hand to my side, letting my hair cascade down my back. Then I stare at my dress. It's torn and laying on the floor. The broken zipper reflects the dull lighting of the hotel room. My lips twitch, fighting off a smile. "You ripped my dress."

When I glance at Shea, a funny feeling spreads through my body. A mix of nerves, lust, and anticipation.

Shea's hungry eyes rake over my body. "Does it look like I care? I'll buy you another fucking dress."

The smile breaks through. "You tore my dress in half, Shea."

A light dusting of blush spreads across his cheeks. He wraps his arm around my body, his hand pressed against the small of my back. His other hand slides up my arm, to my shoulder, and then he's cupping my face. With his thumb, he traces my cheekbone.

My body is pressed flush against Shea's. He's discarded his suit jacket, leaving him his halfway unbuttoned white dress shirt. The muscle beneath is emphasized by shadows, making me want to slip my hands under the shirt and touch him.

Every time I see Shea, no matter how much time has passed, it's like we pick up right where we left off. During the holidays, Shea and I went out for dinner and skated at the outdoor rink in Kelowna. After that, we ended up in the basement suite of Shea's mom's house. While we didn't have what we define as sex (it's different for some people), there was plenty of fooling around. I learned three things about Shea that night.

One, he has a wicked mouth and tongue.

Two, I love the way he moans my name when he comes.

Three, I'm still in love with him.

The love I have for him is persistent. Demanding. It refuses to leave. Instead, it stays lodged in my heart, flaring like the sunrise whenever I see him.

After removing my strapless bra, I lay down on the bed, watching as Shea removes his clothes. Soon, he stands before me in all his glory. 

"Please," I whisper.

Without hesitation, he climbs onto the bed and positions himself over me. His erection presses against my inner thigh as he kisses me. As his hand cups my breast and his thumb caresses my sensitive nipple. Need echoes throughout my body. Every area of skin-on-skin contact is making me feel volatile, like at any given moment, I'll combust.

Shea breaks the kiss, his breathing erratic, and then I hear the sound of foil. Never breaking our connected gaze, he tears the condom open with his teeth. Discards the packaging and rolls the condom on.

His knee nudges my thighs apart. When I feel his erection prodding my entrance, I close my eyes and moan.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "Still want to do this?"

My palms are splayed across his back. I can feel his taut muscles beneath his hot, soft skin. My eyes trail up his gorgeous body, taking in every chiselled muscle and the scar on his ribcage. During his first game with Boston University, someone's skate nicked him in the ribs during a scrum in front of the opponent's net. He needed seven stitches, but he returned to the game in the second period and scored three goals.

"Yes," I nod.

Shea eases his hips forward. While his pace is slow, I can feel a considerable amount of pressure. It's not painful, but it is uncomfortable.

"Do you think it'll fit?" I blurt.

He freezes, staring down at me while his erection is partially inside me. Cheeks turning pink, he dips his head down and chuckles softly. "Bren. I think we'll be okay."

A crease forms between my eyebrows. "Are you commenting on my anatomy?"

"No," he replies. His voice is hoarse, almost strained. "You're fucking soaked."

The raw roughness of his voice almost makes me moan.

"Just... just go slow."

His focus never falters. Nor does his concern for me. As Shea slowly eases into me, he's aware of my reactions, gauging when to take breaks or slow down. As he does this, the uncomfortable pressure begins to ease. It's replaced by the need for friction.

Both hands are pressed into the mattress beside my head. His shoulders are hunched as he breathes heavily. A soft curse is expelled from his mouth.

Slowly, Shea churns his hips, withdrawing his erection and then sinking back into me. He repeats this motion several times. During these motions, Shea leaves a trail of heated kisses down my body. Nipping and licking and sucking while his hips repeatedly move. Then his mouth closes around my nipple.

My hips buck at contact, causing Shea to freeze.

He groans, his muscles tense. "Fuck. I'm not going to last long. I'm too riled."

I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Then we better make this quick."

For a brief moment, Shea's gaze connects with mine. He swallows thickly, churning his hips at this slow pace a few more times before the speed increases.

At first, our rhythm is off. We're a mess of bumping hips and messy kisses. But once we gain that rhythm, I begin to understand why we waited for this moment.

Shea pumps his hips at a perfect pace, causing his skin to slap against mine with every thrust. My hips meet his thrusts in perfect synchronization, allowing him to hit the perfect spot each time. The movements are jarring, causing the headboard to slam against the wall, but I don't care. With every passing second, his hips slam harder against mine. The sensations within my body are intense, and while I can feel the pressure building inside of me, there's a key component missing.

"Shea," I moan, pressing my head against the pillow. "I... I need..."

His next thrust takes my breath away. I rake my nails down his back, not caring if I break skin, and moan. Loudly. I may curse, too.

Then Shea's lips are against mine. He's kissing me with such intensity and passion my mind can't comprehend reality. All I can feel is the movement of his hips and his tongue stroking mine.

"I know what you need, Bren," he murmurs.

One hand slides down my body, settling between us. While Shea continues to thrust, continues to shake the bed and fill me, his thumb teases my clit.

An electric shock courses through my blood, pushing me closer to the edge. I dig my nails into his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist, giving him a new angle. One that allows him to go deeper.

Shea's pace does't change as he continues to thrust into me. As he rubs my sensitive clit in small circles.

With each passing second, the knot in my stomach threatens to snap.

"Shea," I whine.

He drives his hips forward and presses down hard on my clit. "Come for me, Bren. I've got you."

I close my eyes, and with one last thrust, my senses are overtaken by a mind-altering orgasm. My back arches. I cry out his name. My legs tighten around his waist and my inner muscles contract around his considerable length.

All while he continues to fuck me, wanting to push himself over the edge, too.

"Shit," he curses. "Bren."

I tangle my fingers in his hair, tugging at the soft strands. Although I feel like Jell-O, I try to aid him by lifting my hips and contracting my inner muscles.

"Fuck."

A shudder radiates through Shea's body, making his thrusts sloppy and erratic.

Then he comes, his dick twitching and his body tensing.

He presses his forehead against my sternum, releasing a heavy breath. It's hot against my skin. Sweat coats our bodies, and our breathing fills the air.

We stay like this for several minutes, coming down from our highs. And when Shea pulls out of me, I whimper. That delicious pressure caused by him being inside of me is addictive. Despite having the best orgasm of my life, I want him back inside of me. 

He kisses the tip of my nose, a lazy smile present on his flushed face."I'll be right back."

Shea rolls off of my body and sits on the edge of the bed. There, he removes the spent condom and heads to the bathroom to discard it. While he's gone, I flop against the disastrous pillows. Somehow, they ended up strewn across the bed and on the floor. But I don't care. I shove away the rest of the decorative pillows and burrow beneath the messy sheets. They're pulled up to my chin, encompassing me in warmth.

Every limb feels as languid as my mind. I wish I could stay stuck in this state forever. In this room forever. With an endless supply of condoms and Shea's body atop mine.

When Shea returns, he climbs into bed beside me and pulls me into his arms. That lazy smile is still present.

He presses a soft kiss to my lips. "I love you, Brenna."

A soft smile encompasses my lips as I snuggle up to him. His chest his hot against my cheek. "I love you, too, Shea."