The Arena Laughed at My Milk, So Four Hockey Men Kept Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Eleventh Street

Taras takes her home and fucks her against the kitchen counter and the fridge, talking the whole time, until his hand on her belly makes her flinch.

Taras lifted me onto the kitchen counter beside the toaster and stood between my knees.

He put his hands flat on the laminate on either side of me.

It was two in the morning, and the house on Eleventh Street ticked and groaned around us in the cold.

The other three had gone up the stairs without a word.

Abram had looked back at me once from the landing, and I had nodded, and he had gone.

I had told them in the garage that the rest was mine to start.

I had decided it in the truck, with Taras's huge hand resting on the gearshift next to my knee for the whole drive.

"It's you," I said. "Now."

He let out a sound that was half a laugh and half a prayer.

"I'm on the pill," I said. "Fully."

"We get tested every September, all four of us, for the team," he said. "I'm clean. You can see the paper."

"I don't need to see the paper. Take my coat off."

He peeled Abram's jacket off my shoulders and dropped it on a chair.

He undid the coverall's last snap and slid it down over my hips, and I lifted so he could pull it out from under me.

Then I was on the cold counter in my wet underwear with my breasts bare, and the heat of the kitchen on my skin.

Taras looked at me for a long time.

"I've been practicing a speech since October," he said.

"Are you going to give it?"

"I forgot it. You're the most beautiful thing that's ever been in my kitchen."

"There's a lot of competition in this kitchen," I said. "It has your pierogi."

"Varenyky," he said, offended. "Pierogi is Polish."

I laughed, and he caught my laugh with his mouth, and kissed me.

It was the first time any of them had kissed me on the mouth.

He tasted of Gatorade and of me, and his beard rasped over my chin.

He kissed me deep and slow, with one hand tangled in my braid.

I opened my legs wider around his waist and pulled him in.

His erection pressed hard against my inner thigh through his sweatpants.

I reached down and squeezed it through the fabric, and he said, "Oh, Mar," into my mouth.

"On your knees," I said.

He went down so fast his knees cracked on the linoleum.

I hooked my thumbs in my underwear and he pulled them off me with both hands, reverent, and tossed them over his shoulder.

He put his face between my thighs and breathed in.

"God," he said. "God. You smell like"

"Taras."

"Yes. Working."

He put his mouth on me.

He licked me slow from my entrance up to my clit, flat and wide, and I fell back against the cabinet door with a gasp.

His tongue was hot and he was good at it, patient and wet and relentless, and he did not stop talking even then.

"There she is," he said against me. "That's the spot, isn't it. Look at that, you're soaked."

"Shut up," I said, and my hips came off the counter.

"Make me."

I fisted my hand in his curls and ground my pussy against his mouth.

He moaned and went to work with his tongue in tight fast flicks.

He pushed two thick fingers inside me and crooked them up.

I yelled.

My heels dug into his back.

The milk let down on its own and ran in warm lines over my ribs and into my navel.

Taras looked up the length of me, saw it, and made a ragged noise.

He didn't stop.

He kept his tongue on my clit and his fingers working.

With his free hand he reached up and caught a drop of milk on his thumb.

He sucked it off, with his eyes on mine.

I came on his mouth, hard, with my head thrown back against the cupboard and both hands in his hair.

It shook me from the soles of my feet up, and my voice cracked on his name.

He worked me through the end of it, slow and gentle, and then he stood up.

His mouth and his beard were wet, and he wiped them with the back of his wrist and grinned.

"Pierogi," he said.

"Say varenyky again and I'll make you sleep in the truck."

He pushed his sweatpants down and kicked them off.

He was thick and flushed and heavy, bigger than I had expected.

He took himself in his fist and stroked once, while he looked at me.

I wrapped my fingers around him over his.

He was hot and rigid, and the head was slick, and he swore low in Ukrainian.

"Here?" he said.

"Not on the counter. I can't feel my legs."

He laughed and lifted me with one arm under my backside.

My back hit the fridge door.

Magnets rattled, and Abram's whiteboard slid off its hook and clattered to the floor with a list of chores in blue marker still on it.

"Sorry, Abe," Taras said to the ceiling.

Then he fit himself against me and pushed in.

I felt every inch.

I was tight from the long dry months.

He went slowly, a little at a time, with his forehead against mine.

I clung to his shoulders and breathed through it.

"Okay?" he said.

"Don't stop."

He bottomed out with a groan that came from low in his chest.

For a moment neither of us moved.

I could feel him throb inside me, and he filled me so completely that I thought I might split around him.

"God, you feel good," he said. "You're what I was told I couldn't have."

"Fuck me."

He pulled back and drove in, and the fridge shuddered behind me.

He fucked me against it in long hard strokes.

I held on with my arms around his neck and my legs locked at the small of his back.

Every thrust ground my clit against the base of him.

My breasts bounced and streamed, and his chest was soon wet with milk and sweat.

"Look at us," he said, panting. "Look at you. Mar, I can't believe"

"Harder."

He gave me harder.

I bit his shoulder, and he hooked my right knee over his elbow and opened me wider.

The new angle took him deeper and put the base of him right against my clit.

"There," I said. "There. Don't you move."

"I'm not moving. I'm not going anywhere."

He held that angle and ground into me in short deep strokes until my toes curled against his back.

The sound of it filled the kitchen, skin against skin, and the fridge rocked and the whiteboard marker rolled across the floor.

He bent his head and took my nipple in his mouth, mid-thrust, and drew on it hard.

I screamed.

He swallowed and fucked me at the same time.

The pull of his mouth ran straight down to where he was moving in me, and I came again.

It was deeper this time and longer, and I clenched around him so tight he cursed and lost his rhythm.

"I'm going to"

"Out," I said. "On me."

He pulled out with a hoarse shout, with his fist wrapped around himself and his eyes squeezed shut.

He spilled hot and thick across my stomach in four long pulses.

His forehead dropped to my shoulder, and he stood there shuddering with his arms around me.

"I've been the loud one for nine years," he said, into my skin.

"Nobody has ever stood in a room and picked me."

"I picked you," I said. "Out loud. Shut up and hold on."

"Yes, ma'am."

He held me up with one arm and rested his other hand flat against my stomach, low, below my navel, over the mess he'd made.

My whole body went rigid.

It happened before I could stop it, a hard flinch from my spine to my knees.

He felt it and took his hand away at once.

"Mar?" he said.

"No," I said. "It's fine. It's cold in here. Put me down."

He did, gently.

He found a dish towel and cleaned me with it, with careful strokes and no jokes, and he did not put his hand there again.

I had my feet on the linoleum and the first of the cold creeping back up my legs when I looked up.

Garnet was standing in the kitchen doorway.

He was in sweatpants and no shirt, and he held a green duffel bag in his left hand.

It was mine.

It was wet at the bottom, and it smelled of the dumpster behind the loading dock.

He set it down on the table, and he said nothing about what he had walked in on.

Then he crossed to the floor where my coverall lay and picked it up.

Something small and white fell out of the pocket.

Garnet bent and caught it before it touched the linoleum.

He folded the little knitted hat once in his big hand, and laid it on top of my wet clothes in the duffel.

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