The Man Who Can't Be Moved

I could -and would- die happily in Maxime Talbot’s arms.

It’s not so much about the sex as it as about the closeness that exists between us; the powerful bond that had near instantaneously formed the first time we’d ever slept together. When he’d taken me to the heights of passion that I’d never experienced for -not to take anything away from Sid who is an incredible lover in his own right, but if he’s the willing and eager student, Max is nothing short of the all time master of seduction, the Obi Wan Kenobi of anything and everything sexual- or even knew existed, but hadn’t abandoned me in a moment of weakness and vulnerability (in the aftermath of the most explosive orgasm I’d ever had) that had rendered me a sobbing, emotional wreck. He hadn’t been freaked out or annoyed by my behaviour and had never once admonished me for being irrational or childish nor questioned whether or not I regretted being with him. Instead he’d smoothed my hair away from my face with those large, powerful slightly callused hands -that are capable of punishing an opponent on the ice yet mere hours later tenderly fondle, caress and tease and turn me into a quivering, pleading mess- and used gentle fingertips to clear the glistening tears from my cheeks and had kissed me with an unbelievable, heart aching tenderness.

No one had ever treated me like that; no man had ever displayed such remarkable patience, tolerance and blinding adoration and no one had ever made me as if I were the sole priority and the only thing that mattered in their life. It had been a side of Max I’d never even known he possessed; I’d never known that he had it in him to be so gentle and attentive. And I knew right there and then -as those incredible, intense eyes searched mine and he ever so softly wiped my tears away and showered me with not only promises but words of comfort and reassurance- that Max was it for me; the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. That I’d love him until the day I’d die and never, ever want another man. I might be young, but I’m not stupid; I’m not some naïve little girl that believes in fairy tales and expects my life to be nothing but sunshine and roses. I’d married him knowing what a huge, life altering choice I was making; that there’d be tremendous ups and downs and twists and turns in the road. But I also known that as long as we stuck together, there was no storm we couldn’t weather and no problem we couldn’t work through.

I’d gone almost two entire months without sharing a bed with him; nearly eight weeks of not having those arms wrapped around me or feeling his solid, warm body pressed against mine or his moist, sweet breath wafting against my skin or hair. Almost a full sixty days since we’d made love; a short time to most but a lifetime of immense loneliness for me. The two nights we’d spent together during his Christmas break -a mere forty eight hours as husband and wife- hadn’t been nearly enough time. And now that I’m home I can’t seem to get enough of him. I can’t get my fill of exploring the muscles in his shoulders and back; I find myself continuously mesmerized but how incredibly sex they are and how amazing they feel under my greedy, possessive hands. I can’t stop kissing him or running my fingers through the coarse hair that mats his chest and I certainly can’t help myself when it comes to wanting him; the ache inside of me is incessant and my libido has a mind of its own and it knows what it wants and never seems to get enough of it.

The sex is earth shattering; the ‘mind blowing, body numbing, swing from the chandeliers, peel yourself off of the ceiling, see stars and hear bells and whistles and angel sing and lose all ability to form a coherent thought’ type sex that I’ve heard other women -including Peyton, who by the sounds of things has her own perverted Frenchman fulfilling all her most kinky, wanton desires- but I’ve always thought they’d been bullshit about. I’d always considered that kind of sex nothing more than fodder for water cooler gossip; wishful thinking on the part horny, unsatisfied wives or girlfriends that have to fantasize about their favourite Hollywood star in order to get off. Sure, sex had always been good; I’d always been left satisfied and I certainly never had a problem getting myself worked up. But it had never been THAT good.

And then Max had come along and successfully -and surprisingly easily- blown every doubt and every myth clear out of the water. He seems to know exactly what I need and when I need it; he’s never required play by play or instruction and I’ve never had to correct something he’s doing or even request certain ‘attention’. It’s certainly never boring or routine; we indulge ourselves in everything from ‘I need you now, rip each other’s clothes off, fuck one another’s brains out; sex that goes down raw and unhinged in whatever room -or that front seat of the car just after pulling into the garage- we happen to be in, to slow, intense love making that includes hour of delicious foreplay. He makes me feel confident in my body and in my skills as a lover; the way he worships me and lavishes me with attention between the sheets does wonders for my ego. And it’s created a phenomenal level of trust between us; I’m relaxed even when things get insanely hard and rough because I know he’ll never intentionally hurt me and will never pressure me into doing something I’m not comfortable with.

At the moment I’m immersed in an epic afterglow; every nerve ending in my body is tingling and my heart and my breathing are finally returning to their normal rhythms as Max and I lay completely sated in a mess of tangled, sweat slicked limbs and wrinkled and weathered sheets. My multiple orgasms and the alcohol had consumed have formed a powerful sedative; my arms and legs feel as if they weigh a thousand pounds and my head swims from both satisfaction and intoxication as I battle against the exhaustion that threatens to pull me under. I want to enjoy each and every moment that I have with my new husband; I want to relish every possible second of post orgasmic bliss and lose myself in his embrace and commit every sound, smell and sight to memory. In less than a week he’ll be heading out on a fifteen day road trip; I’ve just returned to Pittsburgh and I’m just beginning to settle into my life as a married woman and I already have to share him.

It’s bad enough that there’s going to be hell to pay among the fan girls when the Penguins’ PR department posts a statement regarding our marriage -and a photo Max had sent them that had been taken shortly after our quaint, romantic candlelight ceremony and shows us from the shoulders up, facing each other with our foreheads pressed together and the love everyone dreams about but seldom finds burning bright in our eyes and written all over our faces- within the next couple of days. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of pissed off and devastated puck sluts roaming the streets of the ‘Burgh and posting all kinds of degrading, slanderous shit on the ‘net. Not to mention I’m sure the steadfast Sid fans will no doubt jump on the ‘Death to Emma-Leigh Kennedy’ bandwagon when they find out that I’d broken the NHL prodigal son’s heart in favour of hooking up with his lesser known and sometimes scandalous teammate. It’s not going to be pretty to say the least; I’m sure I’ll be dragged through the mud and that there will be some nasty, hurtful shit printed about me.

But a lifetime with Max is worth temporary heartache and torment. Once people get over the initial shock they’ll find something or someone else to gossip and bitch about in the same way the fan girls will transfer their affections and obsession to another player on the Pens -or on another team altogether because instead of being interested in the game itself, they only choose their favourite teams according to how cute the guys are that make up the roster- when they realize that my husband is permanently off the market and that his womanizing days are behind him.

Despite the earlier drama of the night -Erin’s usual verbal attacks and her subsequent fight with a very pregnant Vero, my slightly drunken conversation with Sid (did he really admit to my face that he still loves me? Did he really kiss me? Because I can’t say for sure that either actually happened) and the brawl that I’d had to break up (thanks to Pansy Ass Flower just standing there), I’m surprisingly relaxed and blissfully content. I suppose that’s what an unknown amount of alcohol and a handful of orgasms will do for you. And everything seems unbelievably perfect and right with the world as I enjoy everything from the weight of my husband’s leg as it lays draped over mine and the warmth of his breath against the back of my neck and shoulders. He smells incredible; a mixture of lingering cologne, sweat and sex. Ad his body is strong and solid against mine and the arm he has curled tightly around me is both protective and possessive.

I use my nails to trace lazy, feathery patterns on the top of his hand -a little trick I’d discovered works as a sedative and easily and quickly lulls him to sleep- and along each of his fingers. I toy briefly with the thick band he sports; the platinum is smooth and cool to the touch and it would take a crow bar to get it past his knuckle. There’s time where it seems so surreal; where I look at that wedding ring and it feels as if it’s all just some kind of fantastic dream that I’m terrified to wake up from.

******

“Don’t worry, mon amour,” Max’s voice is low and tinged with exhaustion and his chest rumbles against my back. “I wouldn’t be able to get it off even if I wanted to. It’s stuck there. Permanently. Same way you’re saddled with me permanently.”

“What a horrible lot in life,” I sigh dramatically, and then smile when he lifts his head from its resting place in my hair and he leans over to press a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. “And you scared the shit out of me!” I scold, directing an elbow towards his stomach as he places a kiss on the side of my neck. “I thought you were asleep. You freak me out when you do that; just start talking like that.”

“Je ne dormais pas,” he brushes the tip of his nose along my shoulder and entwines our fingers together. “I was just quiet.”

“For the first time in your life,” I tease, and then give a yelp and a jump when his teeth nip at the muscle between my neck and shoulder. It’s quite possibly the most sensitive spot on my entire body -other than the obvious- and he’d long ago discovered that the right amount of force when licking, sucking and biting quickly turns me into a horny mess.

“Be nice to me,” he implores, and lays out joined hands against my stomach and draws me even tighter against him. “Be nice before I punish you.”

“That’s hardly a threat,” I retort, and wriggle my ass against his semi erect cock -I swear the man is nearly completely soft, as if he’s always ready, willing and exceptionally eager to spring into action- and grin victoriously when he groans into my hair. “You’ve turned me into a nympho,” I declare.

“You can’t honestly be serious,” he chuckles. “Everyone knows you corrupted me.”

“What? Are you kidding?” I laugh, as I release my hold on his hand and wriggle around to face him and drape my leg over his calf; so close and so tight of a fit that the tip of his nose is pressed against my forehead and the slight spattering of hair on his chest tickles my nipples. “You’re joking right? I corrupted you? What a joke. You’re evil, Maxime. Pure evil. You were corrupted long before I ever got a hold of you.”

“Evil in an exceptionally good way,” he clarifies, as the tips of his fingers drift along the back of my leg, beginning at the back of my knee and travelling the entire length of my thigh before passing over the smooth cheek of my ass and then dipping into the crease. “Emma-Leigh…” he chuckles when a mew of pleasure tumbles from my lips and my hips jerk into him when the tip of his finger comes in direct contact with the puckered hole. “I never thought that someone like you would be into something like that. I never thought you’d ever ask me to…you know…and enjoy it as much as you do. You just don’t seem like the type to like…”

“Let’s not talk about that,” I suggest, as my cheeks flush from embarrassment and I bury my face in his shoulder. “There’s no reason to talk about it, Max. Just be quiet and thankful that I even let you do it.”

“Oh believe me, I am thankful. Eternally thankful. ‘Cause I’ve dated some freaky little things in my time and they never used to let me anywhere near their…”

“Maxime! Enough!” I plead, and tunnelling my fingers in his hair, silence him with a kiss before drawing his head down to my shoulder.

A companionable silence envelopes us and I find myself relaxing in his arms once again. My body melting into his as he places a series of warm, moist kisses along my shoulder and the side of my neck and his fingers traces the tattoo on the small of my back, journeying from one to the other before finally settling on my right, his palm resting on top of the birth control patch that’s firmly affixed to my skin.

“I didn’t tell you about Mario because I didn’t want to upset you,” Max suddenly announces, as if he feels compelled to both explain and apologize for keeping it back from me, and I keep my mouth shut and give him the opportunity t get it all out. It’s something I’ve been working on; staying quiet instead of being confrontational and condescending. “You were in the rehab place and I knew the treatment was intense and I knew you were already an emotional wreck from it all and I just didn’t want to make it worse,” he continues. “I told him to trade me because I thought it would make things easier on you in the long run; I thought maybe a new start in a new city would be good for you. For us. It was all for you, Em. I did it all for you. And I’m sorry if you think I did something wrong; if you think I did it to be sneaky. That wasn’t my intention. All I wanted was to make things easier for you.”

“I know…” I press a kiss to the tip of his ear and tug lightly on his hair. “Thank you.”

“That’s it?” he raises his head from my shoulder and looks at me. “That’s all? ‘I know’ and ‘thank you’. That’s it?”

“What else would you like me to say?” I as, as I lightly massage his scalp; another thing that can either drive him completely insane (in the best way possible) or put him to sleep depending on his mood.

“You’re not going to argue with me? You’re not going to pick apart everything I just said? Find fault in every word? You’re not going to tell me how ridiculous and childish I am and give me a massive lecture on proper husband etiquette? You’re not going to…”

“I am not that bad,” I scowl.

“Emma-Leigh…mon bel ange…” he sighs and pecks the end of my nose. “Love of my life, mother of my unborn children. I love you to the ends of the earth and I would lie down and die or take a bullet for you, no questions asked. I would give you the sun and the moon and the stars if I could. But…”

I arch both eyebrows and stare at him expectantly.

“…you are that bad,” he finishes. “Je suis desolee, bebe. But you’re probably the biggest, most confrontational bitch I’ve ever met."

I frown and he laughs hysterically when I shove him onto his back. “Did anyone ever tell you how badly you suck at the whole post orgasmic after glow thing?” I inquire, as I scramble into a sitting position. “You may be exceptionally hot and you may rock my world in bed, but your pillow talk needs some serious work!”

“Hey…come on now…” he slides down the bed and snakes an arm around my waist and presses his lips against my tailbone. “…just be thankful that I don’t just roll over and fall asleep the second I blow my load. At least I talk about something.”

“I’d rather you be quiet when you’re in your cuddly little moods,” I retort.

“Cuddly moods? What cuddly moods? I don’t cuddle.”

“What do you call what you were just doing? What you always do after we have sex? What do you…?”

“That was spooning,” he corrects me. “Women cuddle. Men spoon.”

Smirking, I reach behind me, snag my pillow and beat him about the head and face with it. “Can’t you be original?” I ask. “Can’t you make up your own one liners? Why do you steal everything from Entourage? You’re not Jeremy Piven or Adrian Grenier, you know.”

“Maybe not…” he laughs, and then snatches the pillow from my hands, tosses it aside and proceeds to curl both arms around me, lift me clear off the bed and then toss me down onto my back. A take down move he’s obviously learned from watching Ultimate Fighting. “But I am better than both of those guys,” he confidently declares, as I try to sit up and in response he places a knee on either side of my body, grabs a hold of my wrists and shoves me down onto my back and pins my arms above my head. “I am way better than those two guys. Than any guy. I’m Maxime Talbot. Superstar.”

“You’re an arrogant shit,” I argue.

“You know I’m better than them,” he insists. “That I’m better than any guy you’ve ever been with. And I mean any,” he stresses the last word. He doesn’t need to say the name; I’m fully aware of who he’s talking about. “I want to hear you say it,” he continues, the grip on my wrists tightening painfully as his eyes and face darken. “I want to hear it, Emma-Leigh. I want to hear you tell me I’m better than him.”

“You already know you are. I’m with you, aren’t I? I married you. You won, Max. You got what you wanted. You got who he wanted. What more do you…?”

“I want to hear it. I want to hear you say it. I want you to tell me to my face that I’m better than him.”

“But you already know that you are. You have the one thing he wanted. What more do you want? What more…?”

“Am I better than him?” he inquires. “You have experience with both of us. Am I better than him?”

“You’re two totally different people. You’re two entirely different men and…”

“Do I fuck you better than he fucked you? It’s not a hard question to answer. It’s either yes or not. What’s so difficult?”

“You’re freaking me out, Max…” I struggle -in vain- against his powerful grasp. “You’re starting to scare me. You don’t want that do you? You don’t want me to be scared of you, do you?”

*******

His eyes and his expression immediately soften and he finally backs off, releasing my wrists and holding his hands up in surrender.

“What the hell gets into you?” I ask, as I push myself up onto my elbows. “What is it with this whole obsession with being better than Sid? Do you really have to be told that, Max? Isn’t it obvious I think that? What more do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” he sighs heavily and rakes his hands through his hair and climbs off of me. I feel as if I should feel bad, as if I should automatically know what I’ve done to hurt his feelings. There’s times where’s such a mystery to me; where I can’t figure out what I’ve done to upset him or what could be bothering him. And he sure as hell would never tell me.

“Don’t say nothing,” I implore, as he sits next to me and I wrap an arm around his waist and lay my head against his shoulder. “Don’t say nothing when I know it’s something. Don’t be like that, okay? Don’t push me away and close yourself off. Please don’t…”

“I said nothing because it is nothing,” he snaps. “Because it’s nothing you could even begin to understand. So just…just drop it, lie down and shut up about it.”

“Don’t be such an ass. Don’t even try to boss me around. You married the wrong woman if you think you can bully me like that. And I’d understand if you’d just tell me. If you’d just…”

“Do you still love him?” Max blurts out. “Sid. Do you still love Sid? Do you feel anything for him? Did you feel anything for him when you saw him tonight? ‘Cause I think I have a right to know. I think I…”

“Maxime…” I crawl around his body and climbing into his lap, place my hands on his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist. “What is wrong with you? I married you. I chose you. I…”

“Did you feel anything for him?” he firmly repeats. “Did you…?”

“I felt nothing…” I clasp his face in my hands and slow pronounce each word. “When I saw him I felt nothing. I love you. Only you. And the sooner you realize that and the sooner you let this all of these insecurities, the sooner you won’t give a rat’s ass about Sid. For the last time: I picked you. I married you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. And all of that should be enough. You should trust me and believe me and…”

He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me into him, effectively silencing me with a bruising kiss; his tongue immediately pushes its way into my mouth and his fingers twist and pull at my tresses as my hands sip from his face and my nails drag along his shoulders and down his arms. He doesn’t want to talk anymore; he doesn’t want to hear anymore explanations or hear Sid’s name mentioned one more time. Sex is his way of both forgetting whatever happens to be bothering him at a given point in time and apologizing for something stupid he’s either said or did. Tonight it’s a mixture of both; he’s using it to not only push Sid from both of our minds and apologize for bringing the subject up in the first place, he he’s desperate to prove -and to feel- that he’s the better man.

I’m certainly not going to argue or force him to talk when he’s already pushing me down onto my back and blazing a trail of kisses all the way from my lips to my navel and his hands are pushing my thighs open. And my fingers claw at the sheets below and my hips arch of the bed and force my aching, wet pussy into his face when his slips three fingers inside of me and commences a vigorous thrusting motion as his tongue begins to tease my clit.

It doesn’t take long to coax me to the point of no return, and I feel the beginnings of my orgasm and I cry out in wild abandon when he pushes his fingers even deeper inside of me and licks frantically at my clit; firm pressure that hurtles me towards completion. And when he curls his fingers back to press on my g-spot and he sucks aggressively at my sensitive, throbbing nub, I cream his name and a litany of profanities fly out of my mouth with zero regard for Flower or Vero who are fast asleep across the hall.

Max continues to lap and suckle at me until I beg him to stop; until I’m tugging at his hair and pleading with him to give me some time to recuperate because of how sensitive I am and how painful even the lightest of ministrations are. He reluctantly backs off; slowly sliding up the bed, one hand drifting the entire length of my leg and finding my ass as he kisses and licks all the way up to my mouth. I can taste myself on his lips and tongue, and when I wrap an arm around his neck to encourage him to settle himself between my thighs, he instead takes my ass in both hands and sits back on his heels.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he instructs, his voice raspy and full of need, and I immediately obey; climbing into his lap and locking my ankles together at the small of his back as he lifts me slightly and guides me down onto his impossibly thick, long cock. It’s one thing to imagine sleeping with a man that’s hung like a porn star, but it’s an entirely different story to actually do it.

His fingers bite into the flesh of my ass -deep and painful enough to know that there will be bruises the following day- and he encourages me to ride him hard and fast as he in turn lavishes attention on my breasts. The sex is raw and hot; he suckles my nipples and grips my ass as I do my best impersonation of a rodeo star. My nails dig into his shoulders -hard enough to draw blood- and the most raunchy, perverted noises and the most foul of dirty talk slips from my lips as we fuck each other; our sweat slicked bodied slamming into each other over and over again, each bounce and each matching thrust not only bringing my clit in direct contact with his pelvic bone, but bringing me closet and closer to my second orgasm. I’d never been able to cum during sex before; my clit had always needed manual, direct stimulation to get me to that point. And when Max had achieved what I’d always thought was the impossible our first night together, I’d nearly lost my mind because of the intense pleasure.

Tonight is no different. Several more thrusts and my orgasm hits; hard and fast and extremely powerful. I scream his name yet again and rake my nails across his shoulders and throw my head back as he continues to pump into me in order to reach his own completion. And when it happens, he buries his face in my shoulder and tightens his hold on my ass and gives a single long, low guttural groan before I feel the hot, scalding rush of fluid as he explodes deep inside of me and he lets loose a litany of profanity.

He definitely swears like a…well…like a hockey player.

And as we sit there in the middle of the rumbled bed, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist and my arms locked around his neck, one thing is for certain.

If I died right now, I’d go a very, very happy girl.