Page 29 of Hockey Nanny

Boone balanced the little toasted blini on his fingers, spooning the crème fraîche onto its surface. My pulse caught at the motion, watching the way the cream spread perfectly, his fingers just brushing the edges without ever breaking contact.

He scooped a generous spoonful of caviar and carefully pressed it atop the cream, the glossy pearls catching the dim light.

“Not too much, not too little. You want every bite to hit the right notes,” he murmured, his thumb brushing a stray pearl back onto the blini.

“Here,” he said, tilting it toward me.

My lips parted, eyes locking on his. I could feel his gaze wandering over me, dragging heat straight to my chest. I took the bite. Cool, briny, rich, perfectly contrasted by the tang of the cream and the crisp toast. Boone’s thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth, swiping a tiny smear from my lip. Then he lifted it to his mouth and sucked the crème fraîche from his finger, never breaking eye contact.

A shiver of anticipation jolted through me. “That… that’s incredible.”

Every word seemed too loud, too intimate in the quiet night, with the steam from the hot tub curling around us.

He grinned, leaning a fraction closer, close enough I could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“You’re not done yet,” he said, picking up another blini and repeating the process, guiding my hand, guiding my lips, coaxing the perfect bite into my mouth. Each time, the contact was slight but deliberate—fingers brushing wrists, tracing arcs that set my nerves alight.

By the third bite, I realized I wasn’t paying attention to the caviar at all. My pulse thudded in sync with the heat building between us, the way he looked, the way he talked me through each morsel as if it were a private ceremony only for the two of us. Boone’s eyes flicked to my chest for just a heartbeat, tongue sweeping over his lips in a slow, deliberate motion that had me swallowing hard.

“I could keep doing this all night,” he murmured, “but I think we both know it’s not about the food anymore.”

Heat blooming across my skin, the night air cool against my flushed cheeks as I realized there was no turning back now.

I didn’t even think. I lunged, hands grabbing his face, pulling him down to me, and his lips met mine with an intensity that stole the air. Hungry, insistent, claiming, and I tasted it. Caviar, faintly salty, the lingering sweetness of the cream. My tongue pressed against his, tasting him, wanting more, needing more, and he groaned low, his hands sliding from my arms to my waist, anchoring me against him.

The heat between us was immediate, searing, and the hot tub water did nothing to dilute it. I pressed closer, my body practically vibrating, heart hammering, and he kissed me back like he’d been waiting all night for this. There was no gentleness, no restraint. Just fire and taste, the lingering tang of food mingling with desire in a way that made my knees weak.

Boone’s hands found the curve of my back, sliding just under the edge of the bikini, and I arched into him without hesitation. Every brush of his lips over mine, every slick sweep of his tongue, every growl that rumbled in his chest pushed me further into a haze of want. I could feel him, hot and solid beneath me, and the thrill of the terrace, the night air on my skin, the steam curling up around us only made me bolder.

I pulled him in tighter, tasting him again, teasing him with everything I could throw at him without holding back. His grip tightened, pressing me against him, and I lost track of where I ended and he began, the salt and sweetness of our earlier indulgence still on our tongues, fueling something that was fast, urgent, and too perfect to stop.

The last of my resistance sank to the bottom of the tub with my bikini top that’s somehow come undone. I got lost in it. I got lost inhim.

And then his arms were around me, pulling me onto his lap. The straining bulge in his shorts pressed deliciously against the growing ache in my pussy. He pushed down at the same time he bucked his hips, increasing the pressure in just the right spot.

I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Where do you want me first, McCabe?”

“First?” My lips were bruised but already hankering for more of him.

More of him everywhere.

But he didn’t kiss me again. Not just yet. “Do you want me to fuck you with my mouth, or do you just want me to fuck you?”

His eyes were shot black with arousal, and his hard cock twitched at my core where I pressed down on him. Waiting was a thing I’d been doing all day. Longer, even. But now here, like this, I was done waiting.

“I want you to fuck me, Boone.”

The kiss was deep, and slow, and full of the easy, confident passion of two people who had nothing to hide and nothing to prove. His hands began to explore, their movements sure and familiar under the swirling water. My body responded instantly, a deep, liquid heat coiling in my belly.

As he shifted beneath me to pull his shorts down, my eyes flickered for a moment, a lifetime of ingrained caution taking over. I glanced over my shoulder, toward our hotel suite. The sliding glass door was wide open. The lights inside the room were on, casting a warm, golden glow onto the balcony, backlighting us. In front of me, beyond our balcony, I could see the other rooms of the hotel, other balconies, other windows. We were in our own private space, but we were also, undeniably, on display.

The old Carissa, the hyper-vigilant woman who always tried to do everything right, would have panicked. She would have told him to stop, to go back into the safety of the shadows.

But I wasn’t that woman right now.

Not with his hands on me like this. Not with his mouth on fire, teasing my stiff nipple.