The Game That Breaks Us (33 page)

I chuckle. “Me too, Princess.”

At first, the thought of spending the holidays with Grace’s family sounded like torture—I mean, we weren’t even really dating at the time—but they’re not so bad, and to have things work out with Grace the way they have … Well, that’s pretty damn awesome. 

I’ve never been one to believe in fate—in fact, I think it’s pretty fucking stupid—but maybe everything really does happen for a reason.

“We better go,” Grace says, pushing me away so she can climb off the table. “I promised my mom I’d go Christmas shopping with her.”

I snort. “You mean you haven’t done that already? I would’ve expected you to have your shopping done three months ago, Little Miss Perfect.”

Grace sticks her tongue out at me. “I have a few more things I need to get, and knowing my mom, she needs to get everything. She’s a notorious last-minute shopper. Thankfully, my dad is not when it comes to Christmas. He used to go all out when we were kids. He’d leave glitter on the floor and say that it was magic dust left behind by Santa.” She smiles wistfully at the memories. “You can wait in the car. I’m going to say bye to my dad.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Where’s Dean?” I ask, realizing we haven’t seen him.

“Probably upstairs with Willow. They’ve been pretty much living together, so I’m
not
going up there to see them. I’m scared I’ll walk in on something.”

I laugh as she walks away. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but look at her ass as she leaves. It’s small and firm and perfect like everything else about her.

When she disappears into the office, I finally tear my gaze away and go start the car.

Time seems to be passing at light speed. Before we know it, the holidays will be over and we’ll be back at the school. I can’t believe it’s almost January and I’m still not back with my team. After we get back I’m going to have to make a trip to Boston and confront Matthews again. Demand my spot back on the team. 

Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll soon be back on the ice in front of an arena full of people and all will be right in my world again. 

“Is it really necessary to still make cookies?” Lincoln whines. “We know Santa’s not real.”

My dad swats him on the back of the head. “Of course it’s necessary. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s Wentworth family tradition to make cookies.”

Lincoln groans. “Heath is having a party,” he refers to his best friend. “I wanted to go.”

“You know we make cookies every year,” my dad tells him, slipping on an apron. “So that’s your problem to deal with, not mine.” Linc mutters something under his breath and my dad narrows his eyes. “Don’t push my buttons.”

“Sorry.” Lincoln picks up a spatula and looks at it like it’s personally offended him.

My dad points at me. “You and Bennett are in charge of sugar cookies. Dean and Willow, you two will make peanut butter cookies. Lincoln, Mom, and I will make chocolate chip.”

Lincoln whines, “Why do I have to work with you guys?”

“For starters, because you keep complaining. Secondly, because you’re the youngest. Third, because there’s no one else here to work with you so you’re stuck with your lovely mom and dad.”

Lincoln rests his arms on the island counter top. “Am I being punished for not having a girlfriend?”

“If you choose to look at it that way, then yes.” My dad nods.

My mom stands off to the side, fighting laughter.

Bennett hisses under his breath to me, “Your dad takes his cookies very seriously, doesn’t he?”

Before I can respond, my dad pivots around to face us. “I heard that, and yes, I do take my cookies very seriously. Cookies are important. Cookies are
happiness
.”

Bennett presses his lips together, trying to contain his laughter. I can’t blame him. When my dad goes on one of his tangents, it’s pretty funny.

Dad claps his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

The kitchen is large enough that each of our three groups has a separate work station. Mom, Dad, and Lincoln have the island, Dean and Willow have the area by the sink, and Bennett and I have the kitchen table. 

“I hope you’re good at making cookies,” Bennett says, “because I haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m doing.” He looks around at the table. “Fuck, and there aren’t even any directions.”

I tap my head. “Right here, bud.”

He makes a face. “Of course they are.”

“Here,” I begin, grabbing a glass bowl. “You cream together the butter and sugar and I’ll handle the dry ingredients.”

“How do I mix them?” he asks.

I give him an incredulous look. “With the beaters.” I point. “It’s already plugged in, all you have to do is turn it on, but
do not
put it on the high setting,” I warn him.

“I think I can handle that.”

“You better be able to,” I mutter under my breath.

He chuckles and dumps the butter into the bowl and sugar. My dad and I had already gone around to each ‘station’ before we started and measured out the ingredients so there couldn’t be any errors there.

I dump the dry ingredients in a bowl and stir them together with a rubber spatula. I set it aside and grab Bennett’s wrist.

“Careful,” I warn. “You’ll over mix it.”

“Over mix it? Is that seriously a thing?”

I nod. “Yep. Now we add in the egg and vanilla.” I do that since I’m terrified that it’ll wind up with hunks of eggshell in the dough if he does it. “And then the dry ingredients.” I stir those in with the rubber spatula.

When it’s all mixed together, Bennett grins widely. “Hey, it looks like actual cookie dough.”

I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “Of course it does.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m used to the stuff straight from the grocery store.”

My dad hears this and gasps from across the room. “You’ve never made homemade cookies?” He sounds scandalized.

Bennett shrugs. “It was just easier for my mom, I guess.”

My dad frowns at this but doesn’t comment.

I bump Bennett’s arm with mine. “It’s time to start rolling out the dough to go in the oven. Like this.” I grab a small amount and roll it into a ball between my hands before placing it on the waiting tray.

“Easy enough,” he says, grabbing a gob of dough.

“Whoa.” I grab his wrist to stop him. “You have way too much. You need like half that amount.” I take some of the dough from him and make my own.

“I’m not very good at this,” he says sheepishly.

I laugh and flick a piece of hair from my eyes that has fallen loose from my ponytail. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

He looks unsure, but by the time we’ve emptied the bowl of dough, he’s making nicer looking cookies than I am. I set the tray on the island so my dad can put it in the oven. He always takes over for that part, saying there’s some super-secret way to cook them so they stay gooey.

“All right, kids.” My dad claps his hands together. “Go to bed so Santa can come.”

“
Dad
,” Lincoln groans. “We know Santa isn’t real.”

My dad narrows his eyes on Lincoln. “Of course he’s real.”

Even though all of us are old enough to not believe in Santa, my dad has never, not once, broken character when it comes to believing in him. In fact, we still get presents from ‘Santa’. It’s silly, but it makes my dad happy so who am I to ruin his fun? Plus, more presents, so yay me.

Bennett and I wash our hands before heading upstairs. I can still hear Lincoln groaning in his room. Even though I’m only in my first year of college, those years of teenage angst seem so long ago. 

No one is in the hall so I pull Bennett into my room and close the door behind us.

I wrap my arms around his neck and he picks me up, my legs automatically winding around his waist. 

He grins cockily. “Am I about to get my Christmas present?”

I kiss him teasingly and pull back all too soon. “No, I’m going to get mine.”

His smile widens. “I like the sound of that even better.”

These moments with Bennett are few and far between while we’re here. We’ve only had sex the two times and the bathroom was hardly sufficient, not getting to feel him skin to skin. I feel ready to burst with the need to be with him. 

“We have to be quiet,” I warn him.

He chuckles and crosses my room to lay me flat on my bed, caging me in with his arms. “Of course,” he murmurs, his eyes flashing with desire. The fact that
I
create that look in his eyes makes my body ache with yearning. I need to touch him. To feel him. To love him.

He kisses my neck, his lips warm and smooth. I rock against him, all too eager to get to the good part, but he grabs my hips to still me. I whimper and he chuckles.

“Patience,” he murmurs. “Good things come to those who wait.” He nips my chin and then moves to my lips, kissing me deeply and so passionately that for a moment I can’t even feel the bed beneath me, it’s like I’m floating on a cloud. 

I want to beg, but I keep my mouth shut because I know Bennett would only find it amusing and it wouldn’t work in my favor. Instead, I murmur, “I love you.” Neither of us have said it since that day at the rink. I’ve wanted to, but when it’s something so new to you there’s a part of you that’s still scared of the other person denying it.

Bennett makes a sound in his throat that echoes his approval and then he braces his body weight on his arms above me and gazes down at me in a way that can only be described as worshipful. “I love you too. More than you know—more than I ever thought I was capable of.”

I close my eyes as his fingers skim under my shirt and over my stomach. Being quiet will be hard, but I
need
this. I lift my arms so he can pull my shirt off and he rises up, gazing at me in my simple jog bra and pajama bottoms. It is arguably the most unsexy outfit ever, but he looks at me like I’m lying below him in the finest lingerie. 

When he continues to stare, I whisper, “You next,” and push at his chest. 

He smiles crookedly and reaches for the hem of his long-sleeve t-shirt and pulls it off. He holds it against his chest, hiding his body from me so that he can drive me nuts a few seconds longer. I rip the shirt from his hands and toss it over my head. Where it lands, I don’t know or care. I place my hands on his chest, palms flat, and move them over the smooth expanse of muscle. His skin is warm beneath my hands and I smile at the freckles dotting his shoulders. He breathes out slowly and I know he’s holding back, giving me this moment. It’s all too hard to get caught up in the frenzy of desire and rush things—like I wanted to do—but slow … slow is better. Taking your time gives you a chance to appreciate the other person in a way you normally can’t.

He takes my hands in his then and holds them above my head. I squeak in surprise at the sudden movement and he silences me with his lips. His hips rock against mine, and it’s impossible to miss the hard press of his erection. 

I hold onto his sides, wrapping my legs around him, and kiss him back. I kiss him with everything I have in me. Each and every press of our lips conveying the love we feel—the love that is still so new and scary.

His hand finds my right breast, and he rubs his finger over the fabric covering my nipple. I want to take off the bra, so I can feel the heat of his hand against my skin, but I remind myself
slow
. 

He moves and grabs me by the waist, turning me and placing my head on the pillow. His body covers mine once more and I feel like I’m shrouded in the warmest blanket. 

He skims his hands down the sides of my body and I shiver from the sensation of his light touch. 

“You like that?” He grins, his hazel eyes darker than normal, closer to brown.

I nod as he brings his hands back up and I shiver again. He chuckles and drags his hands down, this time grabbing the tops of my pajama bottoms and slowly pulling them down my hips and legs. He drops them on the floor and covers my body with his. He kisses my mouth, my neck, over the small swell of my breasts straining against the bra, down my stomach and lower. He loops his fingers into the sides of my underwear and brings them down, letting them fall off my feet. I feel ready to burst as he stares at me and I’m scared I’ll go off the moment he touches me.