Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Fifty-Seven × Small Talk About the Weather

"How do I take this off?" Erik asks me, after a few minutes of trying to figure out how to take the bralette off of me.

Yes, Erik King, word-renowned hockey player and my boyfriend (back off bitches), becomes perplexed at how to take off a bralette. That is the thing that causes him more confusion than a child trying to figure out how babies are made.

First, he tries looking for a snap in the back; then the front; then he wants to pull it over my head but that would mean not kissing me for a second, so that's off the table. And now, I'm slightly convinced that he's gonna rip it in half with his hands if I don't help him.

"Why does it need to come off?" I ask, looking out the windshield to where the rain is pouring down. It's smacking against the car harder than a stripper having her ass smacked by a college frat boy.

He frowns, making a pointed look at my bedonka-donks. My lack thereof, should I say. I wonder sometimes if the boobs that were supposed to go there were lost in the mail and instead sent to some woman that now lives a voluptuous life. Or maybe a soccer player that needed some shin guards and Wal-Mart was closed; so, he's making do.

"Fine." I say, adjusting myself on top of him - on his lap, not his dick, don't get too excited; and pulling it over my head. I wish I could tell you I do it in some sexy, sensual way that makes Erik so hard he jizzes in his pants; then gets so turned on by the sight of me that he does it again. That the car itself, overheats just from being in my proximity.

But, as we all know, I am neither sensual nor sexual; nor anything above a PG-13 movie. If I were at a wedding, someone might mistake me for a child. And when I wear a winter jacket, people mistake me for a man. Yes, I have been called sir before. And as much as that is not a sexual realm that I want to participate in, it wasn't even in that kind of way.

My hair gets caught in the straps, in the cheap fabric that is Urban Planet. I rarely wear bralettes because they're not the most comfortable for me - I feel like they're a bit tight on my ribs. Typically, I opt for half bras or those crop tops with cups in them. I know, va va voom, right?

Then - after having Erik pull it over my head like he's helping a toddler getting changed and not a boyfriend I'm sitting on top of, I accidently smack my head against the roof again. And it's not because I'm Anastasia Steele (Grey?) clumsy. It's because this truck is not built for having sex with someone that's six-foot-five.

"Fuck." He immediately feels bad, forgetting all about our current circumstances and tending to my imaginary wounds. His hands touch my head, caressing and soothing and caring about me more than anyone's every cared about me in my life. "We don't have to do this. We can go home and get some ice on it; then pick up later." He offers, almost too quickly for my liking.

"Do you not want to?" I worry, concerned that my pouncing on Erik has caused him to no longer be interested in having sex.

"I think you can tell how much I want to, Rosie." He remarks, referring to the slightly-pulsating erection I'm sitting on. Usually, he would laugh or make a joke about it; but right now, the mood is so intense that there's none of that.

Unless you count the imaginary audience that would definitely be laughing at me and my lack of thigh strength. I think my legs have actually gone numb.

Instead of waiting for further worrying for me - or I guess giving me more time to concern, he puts his hand on my lower back and slides his seat back until the metal sounds. "I think this should give us more room." He thinks, glancing up at the limited roof of the truck.

"If only you weren't so tall." I joke, rather awkwardly making a sound resembling nervous laughter. What? Me nervous about riding my boyfriend? Never. That's preposterous. Also, can someone Google how to ride someone, if they get a second? Thanks.

He chuckles, unbuckling his belt and lifting me with ease to remove his pants. Well, sort of remove; because he just slides them down until they reach his legs. Or I guess, until they're no longer in the way of our canoodling. Procreating. Fornicating.

Now, Erik King has his bare ass on a black leather seat. I am about to sweat on the same seat and possibly lose a leg because I can't feel either of mine from sitting for so long; and also lose my mind because I'm narrating to myself.

Just a side note though, was anyone surprised by men's balls when they saw them for the first time? Asking for a friend.

"Fuck, you're so fucking hot." Erik says, sucking in a breath as he rips open the condom and rolls it onto himself. I hope he's talking about me and not his dick; otherwise, I would feel like I was ruining their moment.

The hands that go on my hips as soon as the condom's on, make me think he's talking about me. That, or he's trying to make his dick jealous. Or take it on a tour of my insides.

"So beautiful." He continues, getting distracted and away from getting inside me when his lips touch mine. I want to take the intensity he has, put it in a bottle and sell it on Kijiji. Or save it for when he's on the road and my vibrator's fully-charged. "Inside and out." He adds, meeting my eyes to make sure I know that he loves every part of me - and not just my physical parts. It feels like both a Selena Gomez song and the sweetest thing he's ever said.

And while usually I would laugh awkwardly at his attempts for romancing, this time, I just stare back at him and lean forward. "I love you." I tell him, my hands roaming his shoulders not only for pleasure but support.

He grins so widely you would think I just told him he won a million dollars. Well, he is a professional hockey player, so maybe, a trillion dollars. Or a luxury sports car. A sports illustrated model? Something like that.

Even though I tell him everyday that I love him, it seems to make him happy; and his dick, even happier. "Love you too, Rosie." He responds, thankfully not beginning a battle of love you more when he's about to stick his dick in me.

Cowgirl, is not a position that I have necessary lusted over. Mostly because it usually involves a woman with large breasts and a man that fondles them affectionately. And I have neither $10,000 nor time for plastic surgery. Not that I would get a boob job; sometimes I think about it, vaguely, like what I would look like with big boobs and if anyone would treat me differently.

Everyone loves to preach small breast empowerment - also known as the itty-bitty-titty committee. Ironically enough, every "influencer" I have seen talk about this, has gone on to get a boob job. Like, thanks girl, that really makes me believe you.

I study Erik, wondering if he'll try to motorboat my boobs - not that he could; or just kind of look at them like they're dinner from two nights ago. I read a post on Reddit one time where the guy would have his girlfriend face away during sex because he didn't like her small boobs, so much. Yet, here people are telling us trying to love our body.

Am I thinking about this too much? Am I ruining the moment? What? Not me. I never do that. Okay, Rosie. Focus.

"Okay?" Erik checks, despite me being named the captain of this ship, seeming to take the lead. I appreciate it, because it takes some of the nervousness away. I also have no idea how to ride a guy; other than to sit on his dick and then make small talk about the weather. Which I don't think is what I'm supposed to do.

I nod, appreciating him and how much he knows me when he leans in and kisses me once more, before going in.