Justin: That’s really good to hear, babes.
And you don’t give yourself enough credit, you know. As far as I’m concerned you always know the right thing to say.
Libby: Well, it’s easy with friends. Especially good ones.
Now go kick some Canuck ass.
Justin: Will do.
Chapter Sixteen
Justin
I have a new good luck charm, and her name is Libby “The Sexting Goddess” Collins.
After our pre-game texting, I scored on my first shift of the game, slamming the puck into the vulnerable, quivering Canuck net within seconds of hitting the ice. I followed up with an assist in the first period and another goal in the second. Then, during a scrum in the third period, I managed to gouge the Canadian motherfucker who nearly broke my arm last year in the gut without getting caught—because Scorpios never forget, asshole; remember that the next time you think it’s a good idea to slam your stick repeatedly into someone’s radius.
All in all, it is a glorious fucking game, and I skate off the ice feeling fine.
And then Libby’s texts get me feeling even finer.
Text from Libby: In my dream, I woke up in the middle of the night and the shower was on in the master bathroom. At first I was scared, but then I remembered that you were sleeping over, and I decided that I needed to touch you again.
Immediately.
So I crawled out of bed, stripping off my nightgown as I tiptoed to the bathroom door then eased inside as quietly as I could. I wanted to surprise you, but you turned around as I crossed to the shower.
The moment you saw me through the glass, you started to get hard. You dropped your hand, touching yourself, stroking up and down while you watched me open the door and step into the spray. We smiled, but neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to, because we both knew what we wanted. So I dropped to my knees in front of you and you pushed inside my lips, over my tongue, while I sucked you deeper inside my mouth.
And in my dream, you tasted so good, and I knew exactly what to do to make you come so hard you could barely stand when you were finished.
Can’t wait to see if reality mirrors fantasy…
Have a safe trip home tomorrow, and here’s a little something to keep you company tonight.
At the bottom of the string of sexy-as-fuck texts is a picture of Libby’s hips and thighs, her skin bare except for a pair of black lace panties.
They are relatively modest, covering more of her than most two-piece swimsuits, but it doesn’t matter. Knowing her sweet pussy is beneath that lace is enough to get my blood pumping nearly as fast as it was out on the ice.
Back at my lonely hotel room, I read over the red-hot lines at least a dozen times and am finally forced to jerk off, yet again—apparently I’ve reverted to my fifteen-year-old self—to a fantasy involving me returning Libby’s oral favor to convince my buzzing brain to go to sleep.
Due to the late hour, I can’t text her back immediately, but as soon I wake up, I brew a tiny hotel-room-size pot of coffee and sit down to craft something appropriately filthy in response.
Thankfully, however, I have the sense to remember where Libby works before I hit send.
Sexting and elementary schools do not mix. Libby’s probably up to her elbows in markers and glue, or helping a small person learn the alphabet. The last thing she needs is a raunchy text about how many times I’m going to make her come tonight popping up on her phone while she’s reading The Day the Crayons Quit. (Great book. Libby suggested I give a copy to Brendan’s art-loving daughter, Chloe, for Christmas last year, and it’s still her favorite bedtime story.)
Exercising incredible restraint, I refrain from responding until exactly three o’clock, when I’m back home and I know Libby’s kids have all boarded the bus and the woman herself will be alone in her classroom, tidying up before she heads home for the day.
Then, and only then, do I shoot off my response,
Text from Justin: Dear Sexting Goddess, let’s talk about those lace panties and how much I want to rip them off of you. Your texts were hot as fuck, Libs. All I could think about after the game was how much I needed to touch you, taste you, and show you how much I appreciate your filthy mind by eating your pussy for at least a solid hour.
Please arrange to be wearing as little as possible when I get to your place.
See you—and your pussy—around four?
I wait a few moments, hoping she’ll text back right away, but my phone remains quiet. She must be in a meeting or something.
Tossing my cell on my bed, I jump into the shower even though I took one at the hotel this morning. I am not an overly stinky man-beast—though you don’t want to get anywhere near my skates after a game—but I want to smell soapy and clean for Libby. At least until I find out if she’s as much of a freak for a little stink as I am.