Page 36 of Locked & Loaded

He nods. “I am.”

“Oh shit,” I say, and then I laugh.

The sound bursts out of me, bright with shock, because what the fuck is happening? Is this real? Am I, Christopher Rodriguez, professional hockey player and certified overthinker, sitting here, half-naked, while Mads fucking Holm tells me he wants to date me?

Mads watches me laugh, and for a second, he looks worried.

So I say, “I’d love to date you.”

Slowly, his mouth curves into a smile. Not his usual half-smirk. A real smile, soft enough to change his whole face.

Then he pulls me into his lap.

The movement is clumsy. My knee hits the mattress wrong, so I almost jab him in the stomach, and the robe rides up my thighs, but I don’t care. I straddle him, my legs on either side of his hips, and wrap my arms around his neck. His hands find my waist automatically, and he looks up at me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before.

Open. Tender, even.

So I kiss him.

My mouth finds his, my tongue tracing the seam of his lips, and when he opens for me, the sound he makes is quiet and wrecked. His hands tighten on my waist, and then he’s kissing me back like he’s finally letting himself believe this is real.

For a few seconds, it’s almost sweet. Then his fingers dig into my waist, my body shifts over his, and whatever gentleness was there catches fire. I grind down into his lap and feel him hardening under me.

Mads curses, and I reach for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up. He lifts his arms, letting me tug it over his head, and then his chest is bare, and Jesus Christ.

I’ve seen him shirtless a hundred times in the locker room, but this is different. Here, I get to look. At the width of his shoulders, the hard lines of his chest, the light dusting of blond hair trailing down his stomach and disappearing into his jeans.

This is mine to touch.

I run my hands over him, across his chest and down his stomach, feeling the hard ridges of muscle under my palms. He watches me with that hungry, focused look that makes my skin burn. His hands are on my thighs, gripping through the robe, and I can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back like a wild animal on a leash.

“You can touch me,” I say against his mouth. “I won’t break.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

His hands slide under the robe—warm palms on my bare hips. His thumbs trace my hipbones, and I rock against him, my ass dragging over his cock through the rough denim. He groans, and I reach for his belt.

I undo the buckle, the button, the zipper, then slide off his lap and drop to my knees, pushing his jeans down his thighs as I go. He’s wearing gray boxer briefs underneath, and the outline of his cock is obvious through the fabric—hard and straining.

The position hits me before anything else: kneeling between his legs, looking up at him while he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but waiting for me to decide what happens next. There’s vulnerability in it, but also power, and the combination makes my pulse kick hard.

The look on Mads’s face tells me he feels it too. His eyes darken, his lips part, and he stares at me as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this.

So I lean forward and press my mouth to him through the thin cotton.

His hips twitch, a small, involuntary movement, and the sound he makes is barely a breath.

“Fuck, Chris,” he whispers.

The fabric is warm, already damp with precum, and the shape of him against my lips makes me groan. He’s huge. I knew that from last night, but feeling him like this—hard and hot and straining—is something else entirely.

His hand finds my hair then, fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of my neck. He doesn’t pull me in. He just holds on, like even this is almost too much for him.

I mouth him slowly through the cotton, dragging my lips along the length of him and taking my time over the head, where the gray fabric has turned darker. His fingers flex in my hair, his breath catching when I press my tongue there, and the faint taste of him makes heat curl low in my stomach.

Mads is staring down at me, flushed and wrecked, his jaw tight like he’s fighting the urge to move. For a second, neither of us says anything. Then he reaches down, pushes his boxer briefs just low enough to free himself, and—

Holy shit.