The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

JosieBelonging to NôvelDrama.Org.

We barely make it out of his car. The second he turns off the engine, he curls his hand around my sweatshirt and jerks me close. He covers my mouth with his and kisses me like he’s gone mad. His fingers slide down my neck, his thumb tracing my collarbone, his mouth owning mine.

But my hip is pressing into the console, and that damn steering wheel is in the way, and there’s a whole house full of surfaces for us to use. I wrench away, panting. “Inside.”

He seems to blink off the fog of lust, then rasps out, “Now.”

We barely make it up the stairs to the main level. His hands are on my hips the whole time and he’s kissing the back of my neck. Tingles whoosh down my body with each step.

“Wes,” I warn him. “I can’t make it up the stairs if you do that.”

“Good. Let’s fuck on the stairs.”

“And the crying and wailing I’d feel tomorrow in my back would go on my list of regrets.”

He smacks my ass. “Move faster then, baby.”

I hustle up the stairs and toe off my sneakers in record time. The second they’re off and his are too, he hauls me back in his arms in the foyer. “Missed you so much.”

“It was only three days.”

“Too long,” he mutters, sweeping his hungry lips along the column of my neck.

“Same here,” I murmur, giving in to the way he touches me. How his lips move down my throat. How we’re both breathing frantically. How we need each other so much.

I rope my arms around his neck. “Fuck me now.”

He pulls back, a wicked grin spreading on his face. “Against the wall?”

“The wall, the couch, the floor—I don’t care,” I say, grabbing at his shirt, tugging on the material. I feel mad with hunger, feral even as I yank at his annoying buttons.

“Rip it off,” he urges.

I feel wild as I tug hard on the next button, then the next, till one pops, then lands on the floor in a plink.

The sound sends a rush of heat between my thighs. I rip his shirt open the rest of the way, spreading my hands across his chest.

He shudders, closing his eyes for a few seconds, savoring my touch.

This thrills me—his reaction. The way he melts, too, when I touch him. How I light him up the way he does me.

I’ve never experienced a connection like this before. He wants what I have to give, and that’s so rare and so wondrous.

And he wants it desperately. He jerks at the zipper of my jeans, then I grab at his. Soon my pants and underwear are on the floor, and he’s carrying me to the couch. He sits, then unzips his jeans the rest of the way, freeing his cock.

My mouth waters. “I’ve missed you too,” I say.

“Show me. Get on my dick and show me how much,” he says, gripping the base of his cock and offering it to me.

“So bossy,” I say as I straddle him and sink down. A tremble races through my whole body as I take him deep. “Oh god,” I gasp.

“Fuck,“ he groans, letting his head fall back on the couch.

It’s too much and never enough. It’s hot and passionate. We’re fast and frenzied. He thrusts up into me, and I grind down on him, and I can’t get enough of this man.

This man who’s shown up for me over and over again.

Who’s come to my rescue so many times, then who let me help myself when I needed that most only so he could find me again tonight.

He’s found me, and I don’t ever want to lose him again.

His hands curl tight around my hips as he lifts his face and smashes his lips to mine. It’s a sloppy kiss, full of so much passion as his fingers trace my jaw, and his tongue tangles with mine.

And we come back together.

It’s needy and frantic, and when I come, he’s right there after me, arms wrapped tight around me, lips whispering across mine, back where we belong.

A little later, after we straighten up and change, we’re on the couch again. This time, though, we have a different mission. The list is spread out on the coffee table, like it was the night Wes discovered it.

“Your turn to check this off,” I say, handing him a pen.

But he doesn’t look away or turn toward the paper. His soulful brown eyes hold mine with reverence. “I really wanted to finish it with you.”

Warmth floods my body. “We’re almost done.”

He takes the pen and slashes off number eight. Then he stares at the list, humming. Seems deep in thought.

“What is it?” I ask, eager to know what’s on his mind.

“Do you think you’ve been doing number nine all along? Celebrating your goodbyes?”

My heart seizes, a tight fist. But then I breathe through it. The grief doesn’t last long anymore. Just a pang here or there. A dull ache now and then. Mostly, I feel the love. I felt it tonight before Wes showed up, then it carried on with him, changing shape, changing size into a new kind of feeling.

I look down at the list. “Maybe we have. Maybe that’s what this list was all about after all.”

I take the pen from him and draw a line through number nine.

1. Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.

2. Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)

3. Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

4. Eat dessert for breakfast.

5. Take pictures of your fun times. (It’s okay to stop and snap a pic! That doesn’t mean you’re not living in the moment. It means you’re giving yourself a beautiful memory for later.)

6. Volunteer.

7. Explore a new skill.

8. Dance in the park.

9. Celebrate your goodbyes.

There’s still one more item on the list, but it feels like something I’ll be doing for a long time, so I leave it. Some things are just unfinished and that’s okay too.

Or maybe I’m not entirely ready to say goodbye to this list. But I don’t have to let it go. Not really.

I can keep it with me for as long as I want to hold on to it.