Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
He sets me down on the edge of the mattress, hands still on me, like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. For a beat, he just looks at me, breathing hard, eyes blown wide and dark.
I feel exposed, fully clothed and still somehow bare under that stare.
His fingers go to the hem of my sweater and he lifts it over my head with care, unwrapping a precious gift, not stripping me down. Cool air kisses my skin, and I shiver. His gaze tracks every inch that appears—my collarbone, the line of my throat, the slope of my shoulder—and something in his expression softens in a way that makes my heart ache.
My hands go to him too. I tug at the apron strings first—because it’s there, because it’s absurd, because I need to touch him—and he huffs a short laugh into my mouth when I pull him in for another kiss. The apron comes off and drops somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
I slide my fingers up his chest, finding the buttons of his shirt. He stills as I undo the first one, then the second, watching my hands like they’re doing something holy.
“Okay?” he asks, voice rough.
It guts me—this check-in—because it’s not like him, and it is too. He’s always been careful with me in the ways that count, even when he pretends he isn’t.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
I peel his shirt open, palms skimming over warm skin, the hard planes of muscle beneath. He exhales when my fingers drag over his stomach, a little tremor through him.
But I see it.
He leans down and kisses the inside of my wrist. My heartbeat quickens.
“Daisy,” he murmurs again.
He eases me backward onto the bed, following me down, bracing himself on one elbow so he doesn’t crush me. His other hand slides along my ribs, up to my breast, unhurried, exploratory, just learning, mapping me once more.
Every touch feels amplified. Every breath. The brush of his lips at my jaw, the slow drag of his nose along my throat, the heat of his palm on my skin.
It isn’t the animal, hungry thing we’ve done before—those nights where our bodies took over and we let them, where the world narrowed into friction and relief.
This is different.
It’s charged.
Every time his mouth finds mine, I feel it all the way down to my bones. Every time his fingers skim along my waist, my stomach tightens. Every time he pauses—just to look at me, to breathe me in—it feels like he’s saying the most important truths without words.
I reach for him again, hands sliding up his back, feeling the muscles shift under my fingers. I pull him closer, and he comes willingly, a soft sound in his throat as his skin meets mine.
He kisses me, slower now, deeper, and my fear finally dissolves into a warm ache that’s almost unbearable.
Desire gives way to relief because he hasn’t pulled away.
He’s only pulled me closer.
Chapter 25
Grizz
The arena is a living thing tonight, throbbing, hungry, all teeth and noise.
Third period on our home ice and the ravenous Vipers fans are on their feet. It’s usually a winning combination. Front-row fans pounding the glass, the crowd roaring truly believing they can will the puck across the line through sheer volume. The Buffalo Wolves are clinging to a one-goal lead, and every moment is more tense than the last.
The whistle shrieks and play stops mid-stride. The puck—deflected off a stick—skitters up and into the stands. A wave of boos rolls down from the upper bowl, mixed with that deranged, gleeful scramble of people reaching for the sudden coveted souvenir.
I coast in a tight arc, chest heaving, sweat cooling under my pads. The scoreboard burns above us: 3–2 in the Wolves’ favor with only thirty-two seconds left.
Thirty-two.
That’s enough time to break your heart in ten different ways.
Tanner is out here with me, and the second we’re circling toward the dot, I angle toward him. “This is bullshit,” he says, eyeballing the enemy. “Number 15 has been taking cheap shots at you all game.”
My eyes turn toward the Wolves’ bench, then back to him. He’s breathing hard too, but he’s always calmer than I am, like his anger goes through a smarter filter before it reaches his mouth.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Refs got blinders on tonight.”
I jerk my head toward the corner where it’s been happening. The cross-checks after whistles. The nasty behind-the-play elbows when the play is in transition. The stick taps that aren’t taps. The kind of shit that bounces off because of the adrenaline but you’ll sure as fuck feel in your body the next morning.
“He clipped me behind the net,” I hiss. “Then he slashed Coen and—”
“I know,” Tanner cuts in, voice firm. “I know. But listen to me, now’s not the time to retaliate or do anything stupid.”
He glides closer, shoulder almost bumping mine.