The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) by Gina Azzi (little red riding hood read aloud .TXT) 📕

the room for several long seconds. It turns her on even more and I’m painfully hard, more desperate for her touch than for my next breath.

“Lie back, baby. Let me take care of you,” I murmur.

She does as I say but shakes her head. “Let me see you, Torsten.”

My eyes are already sinking closed. Slowly, I drag my fingers away from her and shed my sweatpants. My cock springs free, ready to fucking burst. She draws in a sharp inhale and licks her lips.

Fuck. I hold her eyes as I pump my hand over my shaft, using her arousal as lube. Her eyes are hooded, the tip of her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. She’s so goddamn sexy, such a fucking temptress.

I can’t tear my eyes away as she brings her hands up to her bare breasts and touches herself, never dragging her gaze away from my hand wrapped around myself.

“Fuck,” I murmur. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“No pun intended,” she breathes out.

I snort and move back to the bed. I pull her body to the edge of the mattress and dip down to my knees. Then, I hook her thighs over my shoulders and push her thong to the side.

She arches off the bed, her eyes closing in anticipation of what’s coming.

She shivers as I blow on her sensitive flesh. Right before my mouth pleasures her, I admit, “If we’re not careful, I’m going to think this is for real, Rielle.”

Then my mouth covers her and she bucks off the bed.

She never responds to my confession and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed by her silence.

7

Torsten

I wake up early the morning of my wedding day. Pale light filters in through the window of my bedroom. I never pulled the blackout shades down last night.

My sheets are twisted around my legs and instinctively, I reach for Rielle even though she’s sleeping in the guest room. Two nights ago, we crossed every single boundary but one. Yesterday, we signed all the formal paperwork. Today, we’re getting married. And I’m desperate to finally be inside of her tonight, when she’s mine, with a wedding band on her finger.

An ache throbs behind my ribs. While I know today is a sham, in many ways it feels so real. Too real. Especially after the other night. Hearing Rielle moan my name, watching her break apart under my fingers, my mouth, changes things. There’s no way I can keep my distance for two goddamn years. It scares me to think that even now, I already don’t want to let her go when our agreement comes to an end.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand and I frown when I see Farmor’s name on the screen. Swiping to answer, I relocate to the living room.

“Farmor? Everything okay?” I ask.

Her breathy laugh floats through the line. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call my favorite grandson?” she responds, her Norwegian crisp and rapid. Even though she’s nearly ninety and in poor health, she’d never intentionally let you know it.

“Of course not. How are you?” I flip on the coffee pot. Last year, I bought one of those fancy, overpriced espresso machines but I still haven’t figured out how to use it. While I wait for the coffee to brew, I slide onto a barstool. “Farmor?”

“I’m still here, Torsten. And I’m fine. Getting up there in years, but fine.”

I smile. “What would you like to chat about?”

She stalls and worry runs through my veins. Is it cancer? Did something happen to my father? Anders? What—

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she says finally.

“Okay.”

“About the promise you made me.”

I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath. The day I left for America, barely nineteen and with a chip the size of Asia on my shoulder, I made Farmor a promise that has kept me awake on multiple occasions. “I remember.”

“It’s time, Torsten,” she says gently. Tears prick the corners of my eyes because if it’s time, that means Farmor knows she doesn’t have much time left with us. She’s dying and she knows it.

“I’m getting married today,” I tell her.

She sputters for a moment and then, laughter. Real, genuine laughter that causes me to chuckle even though a tear drops to my cheek at the same time. I scrub it away with the back of my hand.

“You didn’t tell me you were serious with someone,” she prods.

“It happened quickly,” I say, sticking to as much of the truth as possible.

“She’s American?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re planning to stay?” I hear the hurt in her tone and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. Deep down, I know Farmor truly believed that if I come home to Norway, make amends with my father, he’ll bring me back into our family business. She’s always thought of my time in America as a phase, as an exploration of sorts, but never my future.

Never my legacy.

And now, as much as it pains me, I admit, “Yes. I’m planning to stay.”

She’s quiet for a long minute. She clears her throat and when she speaks, her words are devoid of judgement. “But you’ll still come?”

“I’ll come,” I agree, relieved that I made the right decision in marrying Rielle. I knew at some point, Farmor would call and I’d need to go home. Because while my entire family has forsaken me and in many ways, I’ve turned my back on them, it never applied to Farmor and me. Our relationship is the most consistent, stable one in my life. Whatever she asks, I’ll do. She knows it which is why she never asks the impossible of me, always just shy of it.

“Bring your bride, Torsten.”

Surprise rocks through me at the request. “You want to meet Rielle?”

“Of course. She’s becoming a Hansen, isn’t she?”

The lump in my throat expands until it nearly chokes me. “Yeah,” I manage.

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, then. Bryllupskort!” She adds her congratulations to the happy couple and ends the call.

“Shit,”