Breathe, page 1
Breathe
Breakers Hockey #7
Elise Faber
BREATHE
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
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BREATHE
Copyright © 2023 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-098-3
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-63749-097-6
Breakers Hockey Series
Broken
Boldly
Breathless
Ballsy
Bewitched
Blowout
Breathe
Blazed
Contents
Breakers Hockey Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Newsletter
Breakers Hockey Series
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
One
Eva
“You can go.”
Her pulse was pounding in her ears, her lungs still frantically trying to drag some air into her body, which was limp with pleasure…
Because she’d been pounded.
Oh, had she been pounded.
By a big, hard hockey player with stormy gray eyes.
Pounded so well that the sweat was still drying on her skin and her mind was still fuzzy from the orgasms—yes, orgasms plural. In fact, she hadn’t even gotten the strength to pull the sheet up and over her naked body. Hadn’t wanted to.
Because remaining naked might mean a round three with her big, hard hockey player.
Who’d cornered her when she’d been ready to head home and apologized for being a dick.
And then had given her his dick.
Well, he’d bought her a couple of beers first and some food and—
Then he’d given her his dick.
Which was…proportional and worth the hype, mostly because he knew how to use it, but also because he’d been generous and unwavering, and…now she was ready for round three. Not for talking. Not for processing how soft rumbling words that ordered her to spread her legs or lift her ass or take him deeper had made her feel.
“What?” she managed through her frantically working lungs, finally realizing in her lazy haze of pleasure that he’d said something. She tilted her head to look at him where he’d collapsed next to her.
His brows lifted. “You can go.”
The first iteration of that finally processed…right as the second was hitting her eardrums. Right as she clued into the frosty expression that had settled onto his face, the way his eyes had gone from a scorching summer storm to a swirling, disorienting winter blizzard.
“What?” she asked again. A whisper this time, some feeling she didn’t want to look too closely at beginning to swirl in her belly.
The shine of those multiple orgasms wearing off.
Shame creeping in.
All as those frigid eyes held hers, seemingly without a blip of feeling.
Just cold. So different from two minutes ago, from two hours ago.
But so much like the man she’d gotten to know in the locker room over the last couple of seasons. He hated her, and she didn’t know why, and because he hated her, she’d found herself not willing to back down.
Antagonizing him back.
Not giving an inch.
An Eva Moreno special.
The man—the one she knew, not the generous lover of the last few hours—lifted a disdainful brow. “I think you heard me.”
Okay, forget pleasure and limp limbs and orgasms that had blown her mind.
Now she was starting to get mad.
She pushed up from the mattress, clambered to her feet. “Do all of your apologies come with a side of orgasms?” She plunked her hands on her hips, not missing his gaze going to her breasts. Fucking pig. “Or,” she went on dryly, “am I just one of the lucky ones to get both the hotshot hockey player’s dick and the full asshole treatment?”
His eyes narrowed, mouth opening, but she spun away, not wanting to see the derision on his face.
Too much of that already.
She did a search of the room for her clothes, cataloging as quickly as possible, wanting to get the fuck out of there. No round three. No more of this man. God, she was such an idiot. This was the man she’d decided to end her streak with? This was—
A hand stroking across her ass.
Warm rough fingers. A presumptuous hold.
“What the fuck?” she snapped, straightening from where she’d bent to snag her underwear, snatching them up and whirling to face him.
He was sprawled back on the mattress, one muscular arm folded behind his head, the lines of the tattoo on his bicep barely visible. It was a graph and one that she didn’t understand—and probably wouldn’t, because the last she’d heard, Theo had just graduated with yet another science degree.
Something he did just for fun.
But she had licked her way across the lines, inhaled the spicy musk of him deep into her lungs. Now that line moved as he gave a lazy shrug. “You have a nice ass.”
She wasn’t proud of it, but she sputtered, totally at a loss for fucking words for once in her life and hating the disgust that skated down her spine because of it.
“You’re unbelievable,” she eventually managed to counter.
Pathetic.
As was her response to the sexy half smile in return—her pussy convulsing, thighs going a little shaky. “I’m only stating facts,” he said silkily.
Ugh. Now he was just being an even bigger asshole.
Because…facts? Right. She certainly had enough in the booty department, but it wasn’t anything to write home about, especially when it wasn’t smoothed out by denim or camouflaged by lace.
Stepping out of reach, she glared at him as she tugged up her panties, snagged her bra. “What?” she asked, shrugging into it and trying to get the upper hand on this conversation. “No comment on my boobs?”
Another shrug. Another glimpse of the lines of that tattoo on his arm. “I’ve seen better tits.”
He’d seen—
God, this man.
“Wow,” she muttered, grabbing her T-shirt and yanking it over her head, following suit with her jeans and her Breakers-emblazoned sweatshirt. “Likewise,” she lied, deliberately glancing toward his cock.
Even though it was a lie.
His cock was magnificent.
And, for the record, so were his tits. A set of perfectly squeezable pecs with flat nipples that she’d sucked on until he’d tugged her free and tossed her back onto the mattress, growling her name in a way that sent shivers rattling through her.
So, yeah. His tits were hot. His body was amazing. And his cock was glorious.
Better was that he knew how to use it.
Or worse—because it was likely that the man had ruined her for all other cocks.
Theo Young. Playboy. Professional hockey player. Ruiner of vaginas from coast to coast.
(And internationally.)
Grounded by her sarcasm, Eva shoved her bare feet into her sneakers, stuffed her socks into her pockets.
“Don’t forget your purse.”
A sly command.
One that was also an unnecessary jab because she’d already spotted it on the floor next to the dresser, its contents slightly spilled on the carpet, her phone two feet away.
She’d be up shit creek if that got broken.
But she hadn’t exactly been thinking about cell phones and broken screens. Not with Theo tearing her clothes off and fingering her into an orgasm after a shockingly short amount of time.
“You’re an asshole, Theo.”
“An asshole who was just balls deep in you.” And, as though to prove it, he pushed out of bed, condom still rolled down the mostly-rigid length of his cock and walked into the bathroom.
Giving her a glimpse of a nice ass.
Christ.
Shaking her head at herself, she bent and scooped up her shit, hating t
Fun times in the mind of Eva Moreno.
“Let ’em roll,” she whispered. Down her back. To the fucking floor. Out of her mind and life and memories.
An exhale.
The shit feelings carefully shoved down, locked away.
Then she was slinging her purse over her shoulder, pulling up the rideshare app on her cell, and calling, “Thanks for the whole three good minutes!”
As far as exit lines went, it sucked.
But as things often went in her world, Eva took what she could get.
Two
Theo
The hit came at him far faster than he could dodge.
Because he was off his game.
Because his mind was on the woman he’d kicked out of his house early that morning.
Because he was exhausted—not just from the sex, which had been the hardest workout he’d had in years, just trying to keep up with her, but because he hadn’t slept afterward. Or that afternoon when he’d tried to get his nap.
Then he couldn’t eat.
And he’d fucked up on pregame soccer.
And now he was eating glass…and dirty ass snow as the player slamming him into the boards released him and he dropped like a sack of fucking bricks to the ice.
Lungs tight.
Body screaming.
He pushed back up to his skates and kept moving, focusing on the play and not on the fact that all of his internal organs were protesting the collision.
That was hockey and he needed to get his shit together.
“Move, asshole,” he muttered to himself, hauling ass to help out with the play, to support his teammate.
Walker took the puck into the zone and made a move around one of their opponents. He kept the puck, but barely, and then was stymied before he could get close to the net for a scoring opportunity, another player from the other team skating in and sweeping the puck into the corner.
Theo was closer, so he chased it down.
And got creamed against the boards again for his trouble.
Hockey was fun.
Hockey was the greatest.
Luckily, Marcel was nearby and he swept up the puck, kept the play alive.
While Theo spat out dirty ice for the second time in as many minutes—in less because he’d been out for this shift for less than thirty seconds.
Forget it.
Get up on your skates.
Continue to move.
Keep on playing.
Walker got the puck back, and he dropped it to Smitty at the point, opening some space up as Theo fought his way to the middle, sticking his ass in the goalie’s face, trying to block their view, and succeeding somewhat…
Just as Smitty shot from the blue line.
The crack of his teammate’s stick hitting the ice.
The crowd screaming.
The curses from the other team’s goalie and defensemen.
Sharp crosschecks to his spine, chops to the backs of his legs, battling for every inch of space…
As the puck was flying toward him.
Flying at him.
No. Flying at his—
Pain radiated out from between his legs, sending them buckling and his face toward the ice for the third time that shift. Cold and heat mixed, frost on his face, burning pain in his pelvis.
The whistle blew.
The crowd cheered.
He peeled himself up from the ice.
Decided that was enough punishment for one shift and skated to the bench, cock throbbing, legs barely working, vision a haze of red. He made it, and, thank fuck, someone opened the door so he didn’t have to climb over the boards, so he could just slide onto the metal bench, put his head down, and breathe.
And try not to think that this was karma for last night.
For Eva.
A punishment for being a dick.
One that was well-deserved.
A hard shove to his shoulder had him looking up into the eyes of the big—and for most hockey players, that was saying something—brute. Smitty, his beard wild and eyes amused, grinned over at him. “Forget to dodge?”
Theo picked up a bottle and squirted some of the sports drink-water combo at his asshole of a teammate. “You’re not funny.”
Smitty just wiped a hand over his face, droplets clinging to his beard. “That’s a lie, and you know it. I am eminently funny.”
Theo rolled his eyes. “That’s a big word for a hockey player.”
“I know,” Smitty said proudly as he picked up his own bottle and sipped like he was a dainty fucker at afternoon tea, complete with lifted pinky finger. He winked at Theo. “I learned it from you.”
Jesus Christ.
A man likes to learn, and it became a source of never-ending shit-giving.
Sighing, he focused on the ice and drank deeply from his water bottle, trying to ignore the ache in his balls. Smitty kept talking, but Theo didn’t bite, just ignored the fucker who was his teammate and tried to do his goddamned job.
So, he played hockey—like shit.
And he focused on the game—poorly.
He tried his best—and it wasn’t fucking good enough.
But right then, it was all he had.
Especially with balls that throbbed and guilt as heavy as two-ton bricks weighing down his shoulders.
Eyes on the ice.
Moving forward.
Ignoring the past.
That was the Theo Young way.
A couple hours later, and with significantly less ice in his face, Smitty clapped him on the shoulder. “Tough break, man.”
“I already told you,” Theo muttered. “I’m fine. My junk is fine. Your shot isn’t that hard, asshole. Get over herself.” A lie. Smitty had one of the hardest shots in the league, and Theo’s balls felt like they had swollen to the size of two watermelons. Hell, he was seriously considering going home and shoving all seventeen ice packs in his freezer down his pants.
No, this wasn’t the first time he’d been hit in the balls, and it wouldn’t be the last. He’d deal.
But it wouldn’t be fun.
No sex for a couple of days.
Ice packs on rotation.
Moving on.
Smitty grinned. “No, man. I’m not talking about your balls”—a wink—“though if you need lessons in getting naked, I’ll clear it with Kailey. I’m sure she won’t mind me giving a few pointers to a teammate.”
Because the man never wore clothes if he didn’t have to.
Christ.
“Fuck off, Smitty,” he muttered.
“I’d rather go home and fuck my woman.” Smitty winced, glanced down at Theo’s junk. “Not that you’ll—”
“Christ, Smitty, my balls are fine!” he exploded.
Right as the locker room quieted.
Cool.
He ground his teeth together, shoved a hand through his hair.
“Speaking of…” Smitty tapped his phone on his thigh.
Theo froze, a sinking feeling in his stomach. That wasn’t the normal Smitty shit-giving tone. That was…
“What?” he asked when his teammate didn’t go on.
“Well”—Smitty cleared his throat—“you know it’s not personal. It isn’t ever with Eva. She just—”
That sinking feeling turned straight abyss. “What isn’t?”
Was his tone sharp? Sure as fuck was. Did Smitty pick up on it? Un-fucking-fortunately.
Smitty ran a hand through his beard, winced again. “Maybe this isn’t the right time.” He started to put his phone away.
