“I don’t want to hide.” He turned to face me fully, his hands settling on my hips. “Not from people who matter. Most of the team won’t care—Cole, Keegan, Ash, they’ll just want you happy. Max might give me shit about it, but he’s not going to make it a problem.”
“But?” I could hear the unspoken caveat in his tone.
“But the league, management, the media—that’s different. If this gets out before we’re ready to control the narrative, it could get ugly fast.” His thumbs traced circles through my borrowed shirt. “I’m thinking we get through the playoffs first. Focus on hockey, keep things professional at the arena. Then when the season’s over, we sit down properly and figure out how to do this right.”
“I can do professional,” I said. “Lots of people navigate workplace relationships, but you’re going to have to stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now when we’re at the arena.”
“What way?”
“Like you’re thinking about what we did last night.”
His eyes darkened, and he pulled me closer. “I’m always going to be thinking about what we did last night.”
Then he was kissing me, and all my concerns about his secrets evaporated. His hands slid up under my shirt, warm against my skin, and I pressed closer, already wanting more despite the fact that we’d spent half the night tangled together.
He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees weak. One hand fisted in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me, while the other traced down my spine to grip my ass.
I made a sound that was embarrassingly desperate and felt him smile against my mouth. I knew we had to leave, but for the first time, hockey wasn’t the most important thing in my life. Did that make me crazy stupid? Or did that make me crazy in love?
His hands were already working my borrowed shirt up, and I helped him get it over my head before my fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants. We stumbled backward toward the island, and suddenly I was being lifted, my ass hitting the cold granite countertop.
“Fuck,” I gasped at the temperature shock, but then his mouth was on my neck, and I stopped caring about anything else.
He stepped between my legs, pressing close, and I could feel how hard he was through the thin fabric separating us. I hooked my ankles behind his thighs, pulling him closer, needing more friction, more contact, more everything.
“We should—” he started, then stopped when I ground against him. “Christ, Dante.”
“Should what?” I asked, deliberately doing it again. “Because I think we should keep doing exactly this.”
His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I loved it. Loved the evidence of how much he wanted me, how little control he had when we were like this. He kissed me again, harder this time, all teeth and desperation.
I got his sweatpants down just far enough, then my own briefs, and then we were skin to skin, and I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind. He wrapped his hand around both of us, and the sensation made me see stars.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough in that way that went straight through me.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his. The copper was back, glowing faintly in the morning light, and instead of being frightened, I found it incredibly hot. Whatever he was, whatever secrets he was keeping—this was real. The way he was looking at me was real.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes that were going to kill me.
“You,” I managed. “Just you. However I can have you.” His eyes darkened at that, and his hand moved faster, his grip tightening in a way that made me gasp. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against my mouth. “Let me take care of you.”
I was already close—too close, considering we’d barely started. But something about being here in his kitchen, in the morning light, with him looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—it was overwhelming in the best way.
His free hand moved to grip the back of my neck, holding me in place as he worked us both with steady, deliberate strokes. The angle was perfect, the friction was perfect, and the way he was watching me—cataloging every reaction, every gasp, every time I bit my lip to keep from making embarrassing sounds—was going to be my undoing.
“Don’t hold back,” he said, his voice rough. “I want to hear you.”
That permission was all it took. I came with a broken moan of his name, my whole body tensing as pleasure crashed through me. I felt him follow moments later, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he groaned against my skin.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, his hand still wrapped around us. Eventually he pressed a kiss to my temple and reached for the tissues, cleaning us both up with a gentleness that made my chest tight.
“We’re going to have to disinfect this counter,” I said, and felt him laugh against my shoulder.
“Worth it. I don’t want you to shower. I want to know you have me on your skin until we get home and I can do it all over again.”
Fuck.
He helped me down from the island, and I leaned into him for a moment, letting myself enjoy the solid warmth of him. This was real. This was happening. And despite all the complications—the secrets he was keeping, the professional boundaries we were crossing, the danger he kept warning me about—I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
