“Guilty,” he admits with an unrepentant grin. “Though I'd say it worked, wouldn't you?”
He moves in front of me, skating backwards with an ease that should be illegal, and offers both his hands. “Hold on.”
I do as instructed, gripping his hands probably tighter than necessary, and he slowly pulls me forward. We start making our way around the rink, and I'm trying very hard to focus on staying upright rather than on how strong his hands feel holding mine. How his thumbs are rubbing gentle circles on my knuckles—the same absent, tender gesture he'd made last night while we lay tangled together in the aftermath. How his eyes haven't left my face.
“You're doing great,” he says encouragingly.
“I'm wobbling like a newborn giraffe.”
“A very graceful newborn giraffe.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “Seriously, you're doing better than half the people here.”
When I glance up at him, I realise he's been watching me intently—not my feet or my wobbling body, but my face. There's something in his eyes, something warm and focused that makes my breath falter. Like I'm the only person on this entire rink. In this entire city.
“Are you blushing, Rory?” he teases, his gaze unwavering.
“It's cold,” I lie, even as heat courses through me.
“Mmm.” The sound he makes tells me he sees straight through me. “Thatmustbe it.”
I belly laugh at his dry delivery, and the movement throws off my already precarious balance. I pitch forward, but Cole catches me easily, his arms coming around me to steady me against his chest.
We freeze, pressed together from shoulder to hip. My hands are trapped between us against the solid wall of his chest, while his arms lock around my back. Warmth radiates off of him even through our winter coats. His face is so close to mine that I can see the exact shade of brown in his eyes, the way they're dilated in the fairy lights.
“Hi,” I whisper, my heart pounding.
“Hi,” he whispers back, and there's something in his voice that belies the heat in his eyes.
Around us, other skaters glide past, but they might as well not exist. The world has narrowed to just this—me in his arms, the way his breath mists in the cold air between us, the way I can't seem to stop staring at his lips.
He runs a hand through his hair, and something vulnerable flickers in his expression.
“Rory,” he murmurs softly, and my name sounds different in his voice.
Vital.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear nervously. “Yeah?”
His jaw clenches for a moment before he speaks. “I really want to kiss you.”
My breath catches, and every nerve in my body lights up with want. I bite my lip before whispering, “What's stopping you?”
Dark eyes search mine for a heartbeat, and then his hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “Absolutely nothing.”
And then his lips are on mine.
Right there on the ice, surrounded by other skaters and twinkling lights and Christmas music. It starts gentle, almosttentative, like he's giving me a chance to pull away. Instead, I press closer, my hands fisting his coat lapels to deepen the kiss.
His lips are warm against mine despite the cold, soft, and sure as they move over my mouth. When I part my lips on a sigh, his tongue sweeps inside, gliding against mine in a slow, sensual dance that makes me weak at the knees. He tastes like mulled wine and Christmas spices, and something uniquely him that I’ve memorised from last night.
As his free hand slides to the small of my back, he pulls me flush against him, and we sway slightly on our skates. The solid heat of his body presses against mine, and I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palms. When I make a small sound against his mouth, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, I feel him smile before he tilts his head, deepening the kiss further.
Our tongues tangle, unhurried but thorough. His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and the gentle dominance of the gesture sends sparks racing down my spine. I nip at his bottom lip, and the groan that rumbles through his chest is utterly intoxicating.
The world narrows to just this—the warmth of his mouth moving against mine, the slow glide of his tongue, the solid strength of him holding me steady, the way he kisses me like he's memorising the taste of me, too. Like I'm something precious.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and dizzy, clinging to his coat for balance. My lips feel swollen, tingling, and from the way his eyes have gone dark as he stares at my mouth, I know he's feeling it, too.
“Wow,” I manage.
