Carry You Home

The trip to the zoo and our quest for some quality family time hadn't gone exactly the way I'd wanted it to. I had hoped that people would give us some privacy; mind their own business and just steer clear away. Keep their well wishes and their autograph and picture seeking to a minimum and -in the odd case-, their smart ass comments to themselves. I'd always gone out of my way to accommodate the fans. I'd always been one of the last guys to stop signing after practices and games, spending hours amicably chatting and posing for pictures and scrawling my name on whatever piece of paper or memorabilia was shoved in my direction. It hadn't mattered if it was driving rain, blistering cold temperatures or so hot that you could melt a goddamn egg on the windshield of the car. I loved the fans and they loved me and I didn't want to leave a single person disappointed. I wanted to be known as one of the 'good guys'. I wanted people to be excited to see me and I wanted them to feel as if they were an important part of my life. And I never wanted to waste an opportunity to show them just how important they were in mine. They'd always been supportive of me. The fans knew I wasn't a Sidney Crosby. I didn't score a multitude of goals or make sick plays but I brought other things to the team. Character into the dressing room -the guy that was always cracking jokes and loosening everyone up even during the most dire of circumstances- and spending very shift I was given busting my ass. I'd tried to always make a difference. Whether it be as a part of the league's top ranked penalty killing unit or being out in the community representing the Penguins with integrity and respect.

I still remember what it had felt like to come back after my shoulder surgery and the long and trying road of rehabilitation. There'd been times where I'd wondered if I would ever lace up my skates again. Recovery had been extremely slow and had lasted longer than even the doctors had expected; abnormal amounts of swelling, miniscule tears in the repaired muscle that had required going back in to repaired, negative reactions to the medications I was taking for pain and to try and speed up healing. It had seemed like there were always set backs. Something that kept me from getting back to a hundred percent. Every time I'd get close and something would happen and the surgeon and the team doctors would just shake their heads and assure me 'soon, Max, soon' and send me on my way.

The fans had been amazing through the entire thing. They'd approach me out on the street to pass along their concerns and their will wishes and their encouragements. They'd tell me how much they missed me and couldn't wait to have me back. If Sloan was alone, people would always stop her to ask about me. To see how I was getting along and fish for information about when I might return to the lineup. Naturally, my heroics in game seven played a huge part in my popularity. I doubt anyone would have really cared too much had I not been the guy that had scored the only two goals in the Cup deciding game. But it had always touched me to know that so many people care. And I had always tried my best to repay them. To give back as much as I could. Hopefully touch one or two people along the way.

Then there were the the little ones. Even before I'd been blessed with a child of my own, I'd always loved kids. Maybe it was because deep down, I was still very much one myself. Able to easily and effortlessly channel that immature and playful side of my personality which the kids seemed to flock too. Sloan once compared that part of me to 'that one goofy uncle that still sits at the kid's table at holiday dinners and who never gets tired of playing pull my finger and who wears horrid Christmas sweaters just to see everyone's reactions'.

“It's what makes you Max," she'd said. “It's what sets you apart from everyone and makes you totally unforgettable. You're not plain and boring. You really think I would have been attracted to you if you'd been plain and boring? You're far from vanilla, Max. You're every damn flavour Baskin Robbins sells.”

What worked for her apparently worked for kids as well. I was like the Pied Piper of Pittsburgh and they always seemed to scamper after me. Maybe it was because I didn't treat them as lesser fans because they were little. Some of the guys just didn't know how to talk to kids and didn't see them as valuable members of the Pittsburgh Penguin fandom. I was different. I tended to the little guys and gals before I even interacted with the adults. I'd sign their shirts and their hats and the stuffed penguins they frantically waved in front of my face, I carried on conversations with them about what grade they were in and what subjects they liked they most. I asked about extra curricular activities and what interests they had outside of hockey and a couple times I even accepted invitations to birthday parties (and yes...I really did show up, gift in hand) and I offered to (jokingly of course) go to their school and beat up some bully that was giving them a hard time. Once little Max came along, the bond between me and my little fans just seemed to grow. Having a little one of my own made me understand them better. I knew exactly how I'd want my boy to be treated if -when he grew up- he ever came face to face with his idol and I transferred that to the wee ones that thought the sun rose and set on me.

It's the kids that had gotten to me the most today. Sure, I'd appreciated the teens and the adults that had come up to me and had offered their well wishes and unwavering support -'you'll always be a Penguin to us, Max' 'nothing can can take away the fact you're the game seven hero' 'I don't think you realize just how much you mean to people around here'- but at times it had felt forced. Fake almost. As if they didn't really know what to say so they had relegated themselves to being overly positive and sugary sweet. As if they were torn between wanting to hug me and kiss me and see me off with best wishes and wanting to strangle me with their bare hands.

But the little ones...that had been sheer fucking torture. The way they'd burst into tears at the sight of me and how they'd clung to me and sobbed into my thighs and begged me not to go. What was I supposed to say? What was there to say, really? I couldn't just change my mind; call the Flyers and tell them that the deal was off and then phone up Ray and beg him to take me back. There was nothing that would bring those kids comfort. And what should have been comforting -seeing first hand that not everyone hated me and hearing how I touched peoples lives and gave them some damn good memories- actually had turned out to be the total opposite.

What's the old saying? Parting is such sweet sorrow? Well in this case, it's leaving the most disgusting aftertaste I ever could have imagined. There's nothing sweet about it. And it only served to make me feel like an even bigger asshole.

And then there's the near disastrous confrontation with Sloan. Yet another fight that I had to side step, more damage control I'd had to do. While it's a pain in the fucking ass that she seems to find such enjoyment and pleasure in blowing shit out of proportion and throwing my mistakes in my face, I realize that I deserve it. I've fucked up. A lot. And she has every right to be hurt and hold a grudge. The things I've done...the hurt I've caused...that shit doesn't go away overnight. There's nothing I can do or say to take away what I've done. 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you' just seem so fucking insignificant. And all the begging and pleading isn't going to get me anywhere. It's all a matter of weathering the storm and waiting for it to blow over. And hoping I come out of it in one piece. That even if we do find everything stripped right down to the foundation, we'll find a way to build it back up again.

I'd lied about Tangradi. I hadn't told her about him buying the place next door. Yet I'd gone ahead and convinced her that I had. That in the midst of all of our issues and all the shit on her plate, that she'd forgotten about it. I'd felt like a dick head when she'd turned to me on the drive home and apologized for accusing me of hiding the news from her. That it probably did slip her mind giving everything that was going on. That she didn't mean to be such a confrontational, annoying bitch. I'd played along. Accepting her apology (and further making her feel like shit about herself) and assuring her that I was used to her 'moods' and had accepted that I 'somewhat deserve them'. It was much easier to lie than admit that I'd been bullshitting about something else. I couldn't just come out and tell her why I hadn't told her. That I didn't trust Tangradi as far as I could throw him (which isn't far, considering he's a fucking tank) and that I wouldn't blame her if...in a moment of weakness and vulnerability...she fell for his shit and used him to get back at me.

I'm a fucking prick. A first class douche bag.

But I'm also a self conscious, overly protective and somewhat controlling one. She's mine. My wife. And I will stop at nothing to make sure she stays that way.

*******

A swift, loud knock to the door of the glass enclosed shower stall brings an abrupt end to my self inflicted mental torture. I'm unsure of how long I've been standing under the steady stream of lukewarm water, but the shampoo that I'd earlier smoothed through my hair (and had forgotten to lather) is now dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. It stings like a fucking bitch; adding to the pain of the vicious sunburn that graces the back of my neck and my ears. Mumbling a string of profanities in both English and French, I turn my face up into towards the shower head, clearing away the rivers and clumps of amber coloured gel before vigorously scrubbing the remnants my scalp and rinsing until the water runs clear.

“Max...” Sloan's voice pipes up from the other side of the enclosure, and just when I open my mouth to respond, she yanks open the door; a stream of cool hair hitting my naked and drenched body and immediately causing not only goosebumps to rise from head to toe, but my cock to spring into action. “...you always were quick on the trigger...” she teases, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively as she takes in the sight before her.

“Hey...just 'cause my finger is always on it, doesn't mean I'm fast to pull it,” I remind her. “Can't a guy get a little privacy around here?” I tease. “How'd you know I wasn't jerking off?”

“I knocked first,” she defends herself. “And would it have really mattered if you were? I've seen you do it before. Tons of times, actually. Or did you forget about all those Skype sex sessions we've had?”

“How could I forget something like that?” I wipe the lingering shampoo out of my eyes with the heels of my palms. “I don't think you realize how hot that is. Watching you do shit like that to yourself.”

“Obviously I do know how hot it is. I mean, I get off listening to and watching you, don't I?”

Good point.

“Pam's here,” she announces, and when I blink the remains of soap and water from my eyes, I finally get a good, clear look at her. Hair taken out of its sloppy ponytail and tumbling over her shoulders and down her back, willowy body clad in nothing but one of the white white beater's I wear under my dress shirts. Definitely not what she'd been wearing when I'd jumped into the shower and certainly not something she'd answer the door in. It's a sexy and glorious sight; fabric so worn and tattered that it's virtually see through, showing off her rock hard and deliciously perfect nipples. She's obviously come in here for a reason. And it wasn't just to broadcast the arrival of my personal assistant.

“She's early,” I say. “I thought you told her to come at seven.”

“I did. But she showed up right at six on the nose, talking about how she knew we'd be tripping over ourselves and each other trying to get ready and looking after Max. She said she had nothing better to do so she just decided to come over. You know what it really is, though...”

“She's having one of her 'can't wait to be a grandma' moments,” I conclude. Typical Pam. She's desperate for her kids to add to family, yet neither of them are even close to being ready to be parents. She's far more than an employee. In the past few years she's become an extremely close friend. A cherished and much loved member of my family. And she's managed to fill the void that Sloan's mother -and all her accompanying drama and bullshit- had left in her life. It's comforting to know that she's still going to be close by and at my wife's immediate disposal even though I'm hours away.

“I keep telling her that she's more than welcome to take him for a few days to discover what he's really like,” Sloan muses. “She keeps insisting that he's a perfect angel. But we know better.”

“He is a perfect angel.”

“Right...” she gives a derisive snort. “...and you're just a regular old boy scout.”

“Well last night you did call me God,” I point out, and shoot her a playful wink.

“Don't flatter yourself,” she grumbles, but the grin curving her lips and the blush that creeps into her cheeks totally gives away both her amusement and slight embarrassment. “So anyway...” she peers at herself in the steamed up mirror, runs her hands through her hair and turns towards me. A slight pout on her face as she twirls some of her vibrant red locks around her index finger. “...just thought I'd come in and give you a heads up. So that you wouldn't jump out of the shower and wander around the house naked.”

“Is that really what you came in here for?”

She nods.

“No...I mean is that really what you came in here for?”

She gives a tiny, almost shy smile. Almost identical to the one she'd given me when she was seventeen years old after Bruno had reintroduced us at the golf tournament and I'd raised her hand to my lips and softly kissed each knuckle. I hadn't seen her since she was thirteen, since I'd mercilessly teased her about her red hair and her freckles and had reduced her to tears. Suddenly, there she was in front of me; an alluring, beautiful and confident young woman replaced the emotionally vulnerable and withdrawn teenager that I'd remembered. It seems like a lifetime ago. Like decades have passed since that first night we spent together. Back when we were both young and stupid and didn't have anyone but ourselves to worry about. When everything -from fucking in that coat check room to ordering champagne while she was underage to breaking into the hotel pool and skinny dipping- had been an adventure. We've come a long way since then. Weathered a fuck load of storms. Went from being fuck buddies to husband and wife to parents. In the end, it seems like she's the only one that's truly grown.

Sloan's matured. I've proven time and time again that I'm still the same dumb ass.

“Come here for a second...” my voice is ragged as I summon her towards me. What can I say? That innocent, sheepish little girl act she sometimes adopts gets me every time. The way she drops her chin into her chest and chews on her bottom lip and bats those long eyelashes..fucking gets me harder far quicker than anything else ever could. Except for maybe if she was wearing that little 'naughty Catholic school girl' get up that she has. Or if she was already naked. Who am I kidding? One look from her and I'm ready to go. It's always been that way. I hope it always is.

Within four strides she reaches the shower door. Peering up at me with those huge, soulful eyes as I lean into her; my fingertips tucking into the backs of her ears and thumbs softly stroking the front. Neither of us caring as water drips onto the tiles and rolls down my arms and steadily plops onto her tank top. And she gives a long, content and somewhat shaky sigh when I place a series of kisses along the slope of her nose, across the top of each eyebrow and then over her brow.

“I'm sorry,” she says, as I place my forehead against hers. “About what happened at the zoo. I really did forget that you told me about Eric moving in next door. I didn't want to cause a big old thing. And I certainly didn't do it intentionally. It really did slip my mind and...”

I cover her mouth with mine in a slow, deep kiss. I don't want to hear any more of her apologies. Not because they're insincere or get on my nerves. But because she legitimately thinks she has something to be sorry about. I've managed to convince her that she's the bad person in all of this. Instilling enough guilt and self doubt inside of her that she feels that she owes me something. And that just makes me feel like an even bigger asshole. Right now...right now I need an escape. I need to get away from myself. And the way her body arches against mine and her nipples press into my chest through the thin fabric of her shirt...well my hormones are offering me some pretty decent refuge.

“What are you doing?” she giggles, as I tug her into the shower stall. “You're crazy.”

“Like this isn't what you came in here for,” I lightly scoff, and peel the now soak tank top over her head. “You're not fooling me with that innocent little girl shit. Turning me on with it, maybe...”

“I think it's more than maybe,” she chuckles, and drags her nails along the side of my rapidly expanding cock. “You always were really easy to please,” she chides, as the tip of her thumb and forefinger work together to peel back the layer of skin that covers the tip. Pre-cum glistens against the blood red flesh and she scoops it up with the end of one of her digits and pops it into her mouth.

******

That successfully brings an end to any restraint and control I have left, and reaching out to tangle both hands in her hair, pin her against the side of of the stall, holding her there with my full body weight as I kiss her savagely. My mouth owning hers; tongue aggressively shoving its way between her lips and frantically mating with hers. A frenzied and tangled dance that has us both panting and struggling to breathe yet not willing to break away. Her nails dragging and scraping across my shoulders and down my back and then digging into the flesh of my ass as she both pulls me into her and shoves her pelvis towards me. Effectively burrowing my cock between her slick, hot folds. I'm harder than I ever thought possible; I've gone from idling at the start gate to careening towards the finish line. Uncharacteristic. Normally I can manage to hold off until I've got her off a couple times. Sometimes even more. I need to slow things down before I'm hurdling off the edge before she's even managed to reach it.

She gives a tiny, pained yelp when my fingers dig into her hips. Deep red, perfect impressions are left behind; there'll be some pretty impressive bruises in a few hours time. But right now...as I easily guide her towards the smooth, granite bench at the back of the spacious shower, the pain is delicious and only adds to the arousal. She loves to be manhandled during sex. Something I'd discovered that very first night that we'd been together. For a virgin she'd wild and confident and she'd known exactly what she wanted and how to get it and she certainly hadn't bee shy when giving directions or putting forth requests. I'd never been with anyone like her. At least up until that point. Someone that exuded innocent and naivety with a hint of seductress poking through. And once I got her behind closed doors...or should I say once she got me into that coat check room...she'd unleashed her hidden sex kitten. Six years I've been with her. I've discovered every one of those magic spots that drive her crazy; I know every inch of her body and I could find her g-spot in my sleep. I know what makes her engine purr and I know what sends her over the edge.

No man has ever gotten that privilege. And no man ever will.

I push her down onto the bench and drop to my knees in front of her. Those dainty, nimble fingers burrowed in my hair and holding me close to her as I feast on her tits. Tightly holding them in my hands and squeezing them together, showering both with equal amounts of attention. Nipping at the soft, supple flesh and dragging my tongue along the undersides before skimming my teeth against one nipple and then the other. I'm like a condemned man thoroughly enjoying his last meal. Savouring and tasting every little morsel before diving in with exuberance. I pluck one of those rock hard pebbles between my teeth and suck it into my mouth. Rolling my tongue over it and suckling aggressively while my right hand roughly fondles the other. My left I slip between her thighs; prodding at the fleshy lips of her swollen and soaked pussy, sliding two fingers inside of her and my thumb pressing against her clit. She cries out and her hips jerk forward, causing my fingers to slip even further.

“Not like that...” she pants. “...not like that...please not like that.”

I know what she wants. What she loves more than anything in this world. And I've always loved giving it to her. The act itself is fucking hot as hell. Nothing on this earth tastes as good as her pussy. And my tongue has become a master at manipulating and worshipping it until she's torn between begging me to stop and pleading with me to continue. I don't waste any time, removing my fingers from inside of her and roughly pinching one nipple and biting the other before shoving her thighs open and burying my face between them. Instinctively -and from years of experience- her legs raise and drape over my shoulders. Heels digging into my back as I use the tip of my tongue to mercilessly tease her clit. Slow at first; spelling out my entire name -first, middle, third and last- followed by half of the alphabet. Gentle yet torturous sweeps and swirls of my tongue that see her repeatedly shoving her pelvis into my face and her nails digging into my scalp. Not hair there for her to grab. I remember when it was longer -my Guido stage, as she calls it- and she used to tug at it, nearly yanking it out of its roots on many occasions. Once I cut it, she'd resorted to other forms of 'punishment'; pulling at my ears or pushing her nails into my skull with enough force to draw blood.

I fucking love it. In the same way she loves rough sex (extremely rough on some occasions), I enjoy when she inflicts pain on me. Dysfunctional? Maybe. Insanely hot? Absolutely.

She curls a leg around my neck and pushes her pussy into my face. I take the hint; two fingers pushing open her lips and another rubbing at her clit while my tongue gets in where she's hot and wet. And unbelievably tight considering the amount of sex we've had in our time. It isn't long before I'm feeling the approach of her orgasm; inner walls trembling and repeatedly around my tongue. It's then that I draw away and take my attack in a different direction. A hand sliding underneath her to fondle her ass and toy with the puckered hole as I lick and slurp at her slick, throbbing button. And when I apply just the right amount of pressure at both ends...when everything finally comes together...she throws her head back and screams my name and explodes against my face.

There's nothing better in this world. No dessert that's sweeter.

I give her a chance to recuperate. Pressing kisses along the inside of one thigh and then the other. Hands gently massaging her trembling, tense calves as her body takes its time to come down from its post orgasmic high. This has been one of those sensational ones. Where her entire body is drawn as tight as a bow and her toes are curled; eyes screwed shut and her lungs drawing air in massive, shuddering gulps. If that doesn't do something for the ego, I don't know what will. I kiss my way up her body; over her still contracting stomach and into the valley between her breasts. Resting there for several seconds before brushing my lips along her collarbone and along one side of her neck and then the other. Finally reaching her lips and allowing her to taste herself on my mouth. We don't speak. We discovered a long time ago that we don't need the words to express our wants and needs. Or to even convey our feelings. It's all in the way we look at each other. The way our eyes search each others and scan one another's faces. I've never had that kind of connection with someone before. And there's still times where it's so powerful and overwhelming that it takes my breath away. Where it hits me how scary it actually is to love someone that much. And to have them love you like that in return.

She holds my face in her hands and kisses me. Tracing my mouth with the tip of her tongue as gentle fingertips explore the various scars that mar my face. And when she pulls my bottom lip between her teeth, things go from tender and sweet to passionate in the blink of an eye. My fingers twisting and yanking at her hair as our mouths devour each other. Somehow...in the midst of the kissing and the pawing at one another...I end up sitting on the bench. One of my own hands tugging and stroking my cock as she stands above me, eyes feasting on her soaked, glistening body. When I reach for her she shakes her head and turns her back on me. Positioning herself over me yet not taking me in, causing me to groan in need when she repeatedly rubs her opening against the head of my throbbing cock. She's teasing me. Watching me from over her shoulder. A devilish grin curving her lips as she enjoys every second of torturing me.

I crack first. Was there ever any doubt that I would? I wrap an arm around her waist; roughly pulling her down onto me as my hips slam upwards and drive my cock home. There's no finesse. It's straight out fucking. Bodies wildly bucking against one another, punishing thrusts that have her bouncing on top of me and crying out with unabashed abandoned. I bite at her shoulders and the side of her throat and pinch and twist at her nipples with one hand as the other rubs at her clit. It's hard and it's fast. And it's better than anything I could have conjured up in my wild and wettest dreams.

And I've had a lot of those.

She comes first. Her entire body convulsing and her pussy contracting around my cock as she shrieks my name and a string of expletives in both English and French.And something about 'God and all his angels in heaven'. That quivering and pulsating around my dick is more than I can take. The hand that had been playing with her tits reaches up to grab her hair, twisting chunks of the red, drenched tresses around my fingers and palm and roughly yanking her head backwards. My teeth clamping down on the side of her neck as I explode inside of her. Hot, seemingly endless gushes of semen that bathe her insides and trickle out of her and down onto my thighs.

It takes several minutes for us to recuperate. I rest my head back against the tiles. Eyes closed as I attempt to get my breathing and the pounding of my heart under control. She moves before I do; gingerly lifting herself off my cock and then leaning over to kiss me softly. Her luscious lips dropping feathery pecks over every inch of my face and her fingertips tracing the outer edges of my ears.

Then she's gone. Moving towards the other end of the shower. And I crack an eye open just as she returns with a bottle of shampoo.

“Will you wash my hair?” she sweetly inquires. “I like the way you do it.”

It's something so simple. An almost childish request. Something she's asked me to do numerous times since we'd first hooked up. And every time she asks, it touches something deep inside of me. The same way it does when I'm heading out for a game and she smooths down the front of my dress shirt and insists on straightening and tightening my tie.

“It feels nice,” she reasons with a shrug, and waves the bottle in my face.

This is the way things are with us. How they've always been. Wild and uninhibited one minute, quiet and subdued the next. The sex is crazy and off the charts, but what follows after is loving and attentive.

And I wouldn't have it -or her- any other way.