Page 93 of Ice Queen

I get out of her bed, making it before I run through my own morning routine. When I resurface in the kitchen, she’s dancing around, singing into a spatula as she expertly flips the pancakes. My sister must have shown her a trick or two.

I stand back and watch her move to her own imaginary beat. She looks so at home that it’s hard to remember what it was like without her here. I’m seriously considering throwing all her clothes away so that she can only wear mine.

My heart stutters, pounding against my ribs as my vision narrows, leaving only her. The gentle sway of her hips, the way my shirt hangs over the swell of her breasts, and the hem hitting just under her knees. My breath hitches when she twirls around, her eyes closed, pushed up on her toes, a smile stretched across her lips. Her brown hair is tied up in a knot on the top of her head with tendrils of hair framing her face on either side.

A wave of pride rolls through me at the sight. Here’s this woman who was terrified as she begged me to hide her years ago. Now, in the most beautiful twist of fate, is standing in my kitchen, glowing, comfortable in who she is. She’s allowing me to see her, all of her, and my God, it’s a beautiful sight.

The more time I spend in her presence, the more I realize she softens the jagged edges of my pain. The fears that plagued me for so long seem to lose their grip on me as the possibilities of building a life with someone take their place. It’s taking everything in me not to grab on with both hands and hang on for dear life, but I know that isn’t what she needs.

She needs a partner, one who will grow beside her, a cheerleader who only steps in when she asks. I want to be that, but I fear that if something threatens her, I’d throw everything away without a second thought if it meant keeping her safe.

“You’re staring, Casanova,” she says, seconds before a sticky substance lands on my face.

I flinch before I reach up and swipe at it, licking it off my finger as slowly as I can once I realize it’s batter. “Delicious,” I murmur, not taking my eyes off of her.

I watch as she shifts on her feet, her eyes flaring as she watches me suck it clean. I don’t have a shirt on. Did I do that on purpose? Sure did. I have zero regrets, especially not when her eyes zero in on the red scratch marks that trail down the middle of my chest.

I watch as they curiously dart over me, then widen. A soft gasp leaves her as she loses the spatula and rushes to me. “I’m so sorry.” Her fingers follow the trail she left last night, my muscles tensing under her touch.

“I’m not.”

She raises her head, her eyes filled with tears. “But I hurt you.” She points to my chest. “I freaking marked you.”

My fingers settle at the bottom of her chin, holding her in place so she can’t look away. “I love that you marked me. I can carry you with me this way.”

“What?” she whispers. “You’re not mad?”

Her face pinches together, like she can’t believe I’m not angry. I wasn’t until the thought of why she’s reacting this way crossed my mind. “Why would I be mad?” I need her to tell me, I need her to say it, so I can put all those fears to rest.

“Because someone could see it,” she whispers.

The silence that coats the room is heavy, my left brow hitches toward my hairline, a move I hope reflects how serious I am. “And?”

Her gaze drops to my chest once again, tracing over the angry, red marks that cover it. “He used to get mad. Said women weren’t meant to leave their marks on men. I was too rough, too…” she trails off, swallowing hard before continuing. “I was always too much.”

A low growl builds in my chest, causing her eyes to snap to mine. “When I put my gear on later today, I’ll smile because I have a piece of you with me.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “I’ll run my hand across it as if you could feel it, because I hope you do.”

I raise her hand and place it over my heart. It beats rapidly under our palms. “I really hope you feel it too, Princesa.”

Her eyes fall to where our joined hands are resting before they raise to meet mine again. In seconds, she’s lifting on her toes, pressing a kiss to my lips. Her free hand wraps around the back of my neck, anchoring her to me as she pulls me in for another one.

“I’ve felt it for a long time,” she admits before turning back to the stove and removing the pancakes. “I’m glad you’ve finally caught up.”

Pushing my tongue against my lip ring, I move toward her, taking in every micromovement she makes, cataloguing them in my mind, afraid that I’ll blink and it’ll all be gone. My hands settle on the outside of her hips just as she pours the remainder of the batter onto the pan. A soft sizzle fills the kitchen, a soundtrack of our own making.

She leans back into me without hesitation, like her body is pulled toward mine by some invisible force. She sways slightly, and I move with her. I don’t try to lead, just follow the rhythm she gives me. The early morning light spills into the kitchen, illuminating her makeup-free face. She has a single freckle on the left side of her face, just under her eye. I long to kiss it, maybe later.

The smell of strawberries and vanilla floods my senses as I breathe her in. My chin rests against her shoulder, and for once, I just let myself exist in the moment without thinking of all the things that could go wrong. The fear that has had a death grip on my heart loosens the longer we silently dance in my kitchen.

This is everything I dreamed of growing up. I didn’t dream about packed arenas or the roar of a crowd. It was this, coming home to a woman who couldn’t wait to see me. Stealing kisses, cooking together, all the small nameless moments no one else gets to be part of.

My parents are that way. Not that my mom cooks much, but my dad? He’s always pulling her into him. Sometimes it’s Flamenco in the middle of their living room, and loud, vibrant laughter painting the walls of their house. Other times, it’s softer. I lost count of the number of times they’d sneak away to a corner where they thought no one could see them. My dad would wrap his arms around my mom’s stomach, her hands would rest on top as she leaned her head on his shoulder, and they’d sway just like Kait and I are doing now. Like nothing outside of the two of them mattered.

I used to watch them and think that I wanted that kind of love. The kind of love that you can’t describe, but you feel the absence of when they aren’t around. The kind you can get by without for a few days, but eventually, you’d start to lose your mind, doing whatever you could to get back to it. The kind of love I’m starting to feel for the woman in my arms.

I tighten my hold ever so slightly, pressing my lips to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She sighs, and it feels like she’s handing me the most priceless gift I’ve ever had the privilege of receiving.

As simple as this moment is, I’d give up ever stepping foot on the ice again if it meant I got to keep her. This, us. I slam my eyes shut as I continue breathing her in. The realization hits hard, catching me off guard in the best way, because until now, there was nothing I loved more than hockey.