Before he can reason himself into kicking me out, I drag him down to kiss me. I feel his resolve crumble as I kiss his stubborn lips. They part for my tongue and he groans, sliding his fingers through my hair.
Heat sizzles across my skin as he pulls me against him and follows one kiss with another, then another, and another. If being with him is stupid, hopeless, idiotic, then I am all of the above. It’s worth those labels to be happy. And Stephen is a direct line to my happiness.
I taste it on his tongue as he slowly increases the pace. I feel it in my trembling legs. I melt for him and feel expectation and satisfaction pooling in my stomach. He kisses me so deeply, hungrily, surely, that I can’t help but notice how wet I am.
How can he play me so well, like I’m an instrument he’s been studying for years? I can’t imagine anyone else feeling so good.
Stephen lets me drop to the couch and then follows, hovering over me as he devours my mouth and kisses along my throat. Each pass of his tongue makes my hips roll. He grabs the back of my thigh and presses his hips against mine, as greedy and demanding as I feel.
“Stephen,” I moan, unable to resist.
It’s like I’ve pressed a button on him. He lets his double-breasted jacket fall to the floor and clings at the fabric of my dress, drawing it so tight over my breasts that I can’t breathe without my nipples rubbing against the fabric and sending thrills of pleasure through my body.
It’s impossible to resist this man. If he’s going to say goodbye after tonight, then I want to make the most of this time. I tug at his buttons, not caring if they pop off his shirt. I need him—not want—fuckingneed. I need him to fill each space in my soul and fix me into something new and complete.
Stephen pants as he watches me with raw lips.
He fingers a tendril of hair. “I wish I was a stronger man for you.”
“I wish I was enough for you,” I said, feeling so exposed.
He laughs once, a broken sound. “Olivia Love, you are more than any man could possibly handle.”
I bite my lip. It’s impossible not to fall for him. He’s gorgeous, elegant, and so fucking perfect. He doesn’t always say the right thing, but he sure as hell makes up for it. His eyes flick to my mouth, and he kisses me again.
So hot and hungry for me, gripping me tightly and kissing across my neck as I hook my leg around him. I need to feel every inch of him against me,every inch. Even the thin silk of my dress is too much between us and makes me too hot.
“Liv, no,” he groans against me as I reach for his belt. “We can’t.”
“We can,” I insist, palming him through his pants. “And we want to. What’s more natural?”
“It can’t continue.” He holds my face in his hand, running his thumb over my cheek. “Wanting something doesn’t make it right.”
“Babe, life is too short to deal with right and wrong.” I pull him into another kiss and practically feel my soul leave my body. “Give me you, right now, and we’ll talk later.”
He bites my bottom lip and I groan. Stephen is everything I need, everything I can trust and love. And his mouth embodies everything he can do to me. We devour each other as if we’re never going to be able to again and we have something, everything, to prove.
Chase
Ipunch the Plexiglass. “Come on, motherfucker! Get your shit in gear!”
We can’t lose to the fucking Kings. Not this late in the season. Not with no less than ten sexy women sitting right behind the bench with their eyes all over me, consuming every inch. Not that I’m getting much fucking attention sitting in the penalty box like a fucking six-year-old in time out.
I rub my cheek. I’ll wear the marks of the fight happily. Bastard tried to get away with a foul that turned the tide of the game. A shady-ass move that can’t go unpunished. I try to check my temper, so I don’t melt the fucking ice.
We went from being in the lead to three behind with only ten fucking minutes to go and I’m trapped in this little box. Hail scores for us and I grunt and pound my stick against the floor. Yes! Finally, my two minutes are up and I’m back on the ice.
The keeper doesn’t stand a chance when I get the hint of hope. Another goal down. We just need two. Then we have it in the pocket. Five minutes on the clock and two exhausted teams with no remaining subs. No time-outs. Nothing but the ice, the men, and the fucking puck.
I can’t hear the crowd over the sound of the sticks on the ice, against the puck, and my own heavy breathing. Controlled, sure, even. Just like I have to be to obtain any victory. There has to be a plan or a person’s world spirals. My world can’t spiral again.
At the three-minute mark, I sink another goal. Third hat trick of the season. Then I’m checked, hard. I skitter across the ice, taking a punishing blow to my elbow, shoulder, and head. Fuck. The doctor warned me. Not that I’ll listen to some old dude who tells me I can’t do what I want.
Coach can’t pull me without us playing down a man, so I pull myself up and hustle through. One assist later, thirty seconds of fucking around to keep the other team from the puck, then the buzzer reverberates through me.
Cheers go up in the stadium, from the team and from the crowd. Even if I don’t want to admit it, I’m feeling off. Pain radiates through my arm and my vision is fuzzy. Fuzzy as hell. My hearing is a little off and I can actually tell I’m on razor-thin skates. Wobbly.
Fuck.