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She noticed. “Are you okay?”
“Never better, sweetheart.”
She took a minute to steady herself and then began to rock back and forth, penetrating so damn deep. It felt like heaven and hell all rolled into one. This woman was the love of my life, and it was torture to hold back.
She arched her back, grabbing hold of my knees behind her, and gyrated her hips. When she moaned my name, I lost it. I fucking lost it. Screw taking it easy. If I was going to die, I wanted to die exactly as I was—with myself planted to the root inside the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with. So I started thrusting, meeting her every rock with a roll and falling into the rhythm that was only ours.
“Max…” she yelled.
“Right there with you, baby.”
We chased the edge together. Nothing had ever felt so good. So right. So real. Georgia squeezed me harder, her fingers digging into my hair as she spoke my name over and over. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and I watched the orgasm pull her under. When her body started to go slack, I thrust up one last time and let go.
After, we were both panting. It might’ve only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was the best damn orgasm of my life. Georgia slumped into my lap, and I stroked her hair.
“Are you okay? Any pain?” she whispered.
I kissed the top of her head. “I’m good. I promise.”
She sighed. “You know, I’m still mad at you.”
“If that’s how you show me mad, I’ll be sure to piss you off plenty.”
She slapped my shoulder. “You dumped me. And broke my heart.”
“I know. And I promise I’m going to spend every day making it up to you.”
My brother had told Georgia that right before everything happened, I’d made the decision to have surgery. But I realized she probably didn’t know how I’d come to that decision.
“Did Tate tell you about my trip down to Long Beach?”
She looked up with her little nose wrinkled. “Long Beach? No. But that’s where my boutique is.”
“I know. When I first got out here, I was really struggling. It didn’t feel like I’d made the right decision, but I couldn’t risk you getting hurt. So I started taking long drives to think and clear my head. One day I wound up in Long Beach. I took the dogs for a walk on the beach, stopped to get them some water, and I walked straight into your store.”
“Really?”
“Yep. So I went inside and looked around. The lady working there showed me the arrangements and mentioned that you had a database of suggested notes for cards. I remembered you’d said you used to suggest quotations for people who weren’t good with messages.”
“That’s right. I had a few F. Scott Fitzgerald books in my first store, and I’d tabbed them and annotated quotes I loved.”
I nodded. “I’d been driving all over, trying to figure out what to do. Turned out, the answer was in one of those quotes you picked out years ago.”
“It was?”
“Yep. It was always you.”
Her eyes watered as she smiled. “It was always you, too.”
EPILOGUE
* * *
Georgia
Two years later
Tonight was bittersweet.
I stood at the window in the owner’s skybox, looking down at the ice. Max’s entire family was all here, too, milling around somewhere behind me. I would rather have been down below, but Celia and Miles Gibson had insisted they host everyone for the big night, and I just couldn’t say no. Technically, Miles was Max’s boss, but Celia and I had also become good friends. They frequently invited me to watch the games up here with them, but ever since Max had skated back out onto the ice, I’d felt the need to be closer to the rink.
It had been a tough couple of years for Max, with lots of ups and downs. After his surgery, it took almost a full year for him to get back to where he needed to be to play hockey again. And even after countless hours of physical therapy and training to regain his strength, Max would be the first to tell you that while he might be fit to lace up, he wasn’t the player he’d been before. The ruptured aneurysm had caused some long-term issues, the worst being tissue and nerve damage in his neck that made the recovery time after each game longer and longer.
Which was why tonight was his last game. At the ripe old age of thirty-one, Pretty Boy Yearwood was retiring. It had been his choice, not at the team’s insistence, and that’s how he wanted to go out—on his own terms.
Though, he wasn’t actually going too far. During the year Max couldn’t play, he’d still gone to every practice and every game. He’d become sort of an unofficial assistant coach for the team, and during that time, the head coach had recognized that Max had skills that were valuable on and off the ice. So while Max was retiring from playing today, as of September, he’d be the strength and conditioning coach for the Blades. His job would be to develop athletes to the pinnacle of their performance—something he knew better than anyone. The best part of the change was that he only had to work at practices, so he wouldn’t have the crazy travel schedule of a player anymore.
