The Fifteenth Minute: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 5)

Lianne

THE KNOCK on my door surprises me, because it can’t be either Bella or Rafe. The low murmur of their post-coital conversation is audible from the other room. I’ve just finished blasting a dance playlist to muffle their shenanigans, and now it’s back to reading Brecht.

When the knock comes again, I get up and open the door, and DJ is standing right there. You could knock me over with a feather, I’m so surprised.

“Hi,” he says, his big dark eyes taking me in. “I just had to see you, smalls.” He leaves off the words one more time, but we both hear them anyway. “Can I come in for a minute? I won’t stay long if you don’t want me to.”

I don’t answer this question. Instead I just fling myself at him. “I’m sorry,” I gasp as I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze. He smells like winter air and clean sweat. And I just want to climb inside his jacket and stay there forever.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, catching me in strong arms.

But it isn’t. It’s not at all okay. I thought it would hurt less if I kept my distance these last couple weeks. But I was wrong. I ache. And now I’m scaling him like a tree, wrapping my legs around his waist and clinging to him like drowning passengers to flotsam in the Titanic movie.

DJ actually chuckles, but I don’t see what’s funny. He carries me into my room and kicks the door shut. “Oh, smalls. I missed you so much.” He sits carefully on my bed and buries his face in my hair.

I take another deep breath of him, and then a giant convulsive sob comes heaving out of me. I try to gulp it back, but that only makes it worse. My eyes erupt like fountains.

“Oh, noooo!” he croons. “Don’t cry. It’s like you said. This isn’t a John Green novel. Nobody’s dying.”

But my heart is unconvinced. And now I’m ugly-crying. I’m like Claire Danes on Homeland, but without the dignity. And I can’t even wipe my face because I still have an octopus hold on DJ, so that he can’t leave before I can get over myself.

The bathroom door flies open and Bella sticks her head in. “What’s the matter… Oh. Sorry.” The door closes again before either of us bothers to answer. Somehow DJ manages to extract a hand from my embrace and reach for my tissue box. And then he’s dabbing at my tears and shushing me gently. When the mess has been mopped up, he sits back and looks at me for a moment, his brown eyes almost twinkling.

Beneath me he kicks off his shoes. And he unzips his fleece jacket and I relax the death grip I have on him so he can toss it on the floor. “Come here,” he whispers, pulling me down until he’s lying on his side on my bed, and I’m tucked against him, my face buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. “Shh,” he says again, rubbing my back with one big hand.

I calm down slowly, listening to the beat of his steady heart until mine matches it. We are cuddled up together in exactly the way I’ve always wanted to be.

Nobody says anything, and that’s okay. We’re soothing each other without words. I brace my hand on his tight chest. I love the feel of him, and he knows it. And he cradles me in strong arms.

After a while, DJ leans in and places a soft, thoughtful kiss on my cheekbone. It’s so sweet that I have to take a deep breath to keep from crying again. But then he kisses me a second time, and I make myself focus on the softness of his lips on my face, and the scrape of the evening whiskers on his chin.

I turn like a flower toward the sun, fitting my mouth against his where it belongs. Our first kiss is slow and sweet. We both just savor the connection. It’s like finding an object I thought I’d lost—I have to stop and admire it for a moment, wondering how something can be both familiar and unexpected.

But then DJ makes a hungry, bitten-off noise at the back of his throat. His next kiss is deeper. And then deeper still. And I’m waving him in like those guys on the tarmac beckoning the jetliner with those orange…things. Whatever they are. And where was that thought going? Because…oh. Oh, yeah. His mouth is the only place I want to be. I’m going to climb inside and never leave. I’m about to start picking out curtains and rearranging the furniture.

He opens for me on a sigh, his palms warming my lower back.

But I want more. Much more. So I plunge my hands down his abs, lifting the hem of his T-shirt so that I can connect with skin. My fingernails scrape lightly across his belly, sifting through his happy trail, and he lets out a happy moan.

That sound is all it takes to turn me into a crazy, desperate person. I tug at his T-shirt until he gives in and yanks it off. The bare-chested DJ stops to kiss me again. Big hands cup my face while he worships my mouth. His tongue makes long, drugging pulls against mine. Then—finally—he lifts my top over my head. When he discovers I’m not wearing a bra, he makes a low sound of approval. His fingers trail up my skin, leaving shivers in their wake, until the pad of one of his thumbs teases my nipple. I practically leap off the bed because I’d forgotten how incredible his touch feels.

I’ve spent too many days hiding from all the affection I feel for DJ. What a waste. Now I only have tonight to make up for lost time.

DJ isn’t chuckling anymore. He’s admiring my body with such tenderness that I feel a tightness in my chest. I love it, but it steals my breath. So I drop my eyes, allowing my hands to slide down to the waistband of his athletic pants and push them down. He raises his hips to let me strip them off. While he’s still kicking out of them, I push down my yoga pants and my underwear in one go.

“Jesus H,” he breathes, taking my waist in his hands. He rolls to his back, lifting me on top of him with as much ease as he’d lift a pillow. And—wow. I’m stretched out on a gorgeous nearly nekkid man. He’s still wearing his black briefs. But his hardness is right between my legs. I’m kissing him and touching him everywhere while practically panting into his mouth. Losing myself in all this wanting.

“Please,” I say after many more kisses. There’s no doubt in my mind where this is headed, so I’d like to get there sooner rather than later. (There must be no doubt in my neighbors’ minds, either, because Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” is suddenly playing next door. Loudly.)

“Please what?” DJ asks, smiling up at me. “You don’t like saying what you want, do you?”

Busted. I shake my head.

“Why not?” he asks, ruffling my hair playfully, as if now was a convenient time for a chat. Meanwhile, I’m ready to combust.

“Because,” I gasp. “If I say it, I won’t sound like a nice girl.”

His eyes go soft. “You are a nice girl—the nicest one. And that will still be true even if you scream along with the soundtrack for As You Lick It.”

This makes me snort with laughter, and it’s not sexy. But DJ smiles anyway. And, God, there’s nothing quite so potent as DJ smiling up at me from under my nekkid body. He’s still smiling while he runs both hands down my bare sides onto my hips. And he’s still smiling as he reaches between my legs to caress me with one smooth, slick sweep of his fingers.

“Oh geez,” I gasp, and he grins. “Ohhhh,” I moan. My hips can’t resist the urge to move, increasing the contact with his hand. So I give in, shifting and practically writhing against him. It’s so dirty but so irresistible that I just don’t care.

With his free hand, DJ gathers up my hair which has fallen in my face. Holding onto it, he kisses me again, then sucks on my tongue. The moan I make is probably loud enough to be heard over Daft Punk.

It takes all my willpower to shift off DJ and dive for the drawer to my nightstand. I plunge my hand inside and find one of the Welcome to Harkness condoms I received on move-in day. DJ sits up and takes it from me, and a few seconds later he’s shed his briefs and the condom wrapper. The second he’s covered, he lifts me into his lap. Straddling him, I brace my hands on his shoulders and slide him exactly where I want him.

There’s a pause while we stare into each other’s eyes, just getting used to the idea that we’re here and this is real and it’s wonderful. It’s like a brilliant moment in slo-mo, with golden light and a perfect view of his warm eyes. There’s a whole lot of naked affection looking up at me, too.

And then? It’s as if someone fired a starting gun. Our lips crash together and I lever up on my knees, straining against him. And it’s not just me who’s suddenly urgent. DJ pumps his hips as we reach for each other in every conceivable way. It’s not graceful, but energetic. We’re like that last chase scene at the end of Speed, where the bus knocks everything out of its path. We are arms and legs and heat and friction.

“Jesus,” he grunts out, but I muffle it with another of my kisses.

Somehow I end up on my back without even knowing how I got there. DJ over me is at least as amazing as DJ under me, because I can see each muscle flex as he moves and trace the precious crease in his forehead as he works us closer together. But when he slips a hand between our bodies, everything gets so much more amazing that I forget how to think. I just let it all go, arching up to him, cresting and then sliding down a wave of pure pleasure. I’m vaguely aware of DJ making a sound that’s half growl, half grunt, and then all the muscles tense in his neck and chest.

Seconds later, he’s collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard into my hair.

It’s a really long time before either of us speaks. But it’s a good kind of quiet, and not at all sad. He shifts on the bed to make us more comfortable, and then I’m drifting on happiness and the smooth skin of his shoulder.

“I need you in my life, smalls,” he says in a whisper. “No matter what happens tomorrow, that won’t change.”

“Mmm,” is all I can say. Some minutes later I decide to contribute to the conversation. “I’m still worried,” I admit. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes and no. I don’t want to lose. But I’m not panicked anymore. It took me a while to get over the fact that sometimes shitty things just happen.”

“But…” It’s hard to put into words how much this bothers me. “This shitty thing must have an explanation. Doesn’t it kill you to not know why?”

“It did,” he admits. “But then I realized that it was killing me to be so angry about it. If I never get to know why, I still have to keep going, you know?”

“I guess.” Personally, I doubt I could ever be so Zen. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“The meeting is at eleven-fifteen. My family is coming up. Even Violet, though I wish she didn’t have to hear me tell what happened. My cynical lawyer says that family is good, though. And Violet called me a sexist pig for wanting to exclude her.”

This makes me smile, because I can picture it.

“The dean’s office has been really vague about who will be there—the dean, or the full disciplinary board. My lawyer’s plan is to get them to listen to all the ways they’ve dropped the ball on the investigation. And he’s got a statement from my roommate in support of my side of the story.”

“Your roommate?”

“He’s in Tibet this year. But he was, uh, there when it happened.”

I don’t press for more details because I do not want to picture him with another girl. “That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, but it might not be enough to convince ’em that they don’t have the story straight. My lawyer also reached out to Annie’s sister, but he didn’t get a response. If this were a trial, he could interview her, no question. But it isn’t.”

I give him a squeeze. “Will you let me know what happens? Because I won’t be able to think of anything else.”

“Of course I will. But enough about tomorrow. Come here and kiss me. There’s still twelve hours until I face the firing squad.”

I do exactly as requested, and he smiles as I lower a kiss to the corner of his mouth and tease him. I kiss my way up the side of his face, and he closes his eyes and pulls me closer.

“Will you stay tonight? I mean…” That sounded awfully eager. “I know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“But I want to be,” he says. “Can I set my alarm for six? Nobody will see me leave. And I have more packing to do in the morning.” When he catches my panicked expression, he kisses me on the nose. “For midterm break, remember? It might not be permanent. And even if it is, you’re not allowed to panic yet. Not tonight.”

“Okay,” I promise. And then I kiss him again, because it’s easier to be happy when we’re making out.

Later, we get up and take a shower together, which is funny because it used to piss me off when Bella let guys use our shower. Hello, hypocrisy. And with DJ and I all wet and slippery together, things got a little heated. We have to go back to bed to finish the job.

After one more clean-up, it’s late and we finally tuck ourselves into bed. DJ folds me against his chest, and it’s perfect. “I like you here,” I whisper.

“I like it here, too.”

Neither of us says I hope we get a chance to do this again. But we both hear it anyway