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Her lips parted.
“If we’re just being honest,” I whispered.
I didn’t know who moved first. Who leaned in. Who went for it. It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that Evie’s mouth was on mine, her lips soft and pliant as I kissed her. I kept it gentle with light brushes and delicate sips. I sucked on her lower lip and her breath caught. Fuck, I liked that sound, that quick inhale that wasn’t quite a gasp. Control yourself, that was my only thought as I took my time.
Then she speared her fingers into my hair and parted her lips for me.
I took what she offered, sliding my tongue against hers. Damn, she was soft and tasted like tequila and something just a hint sweeter. Slow. Go slow.
Her fingers tightened in my hair and she whimpered.
The sound went straight to my cock and broke me like nothing else ever had.
I slanted my mouth over hers and claimed, deepening the kiss with every stroke of my tongue, memorizing the lines of her mouth, cataloging what made her lean in for more. Closer, I needed to get closer. She was warmth and sunlight and everything my life had been missing.
Grabbing the seat of her stool, I pulled her closer, the chair squeaking against the hardwood floor, and still I kissed her like she was oxygen and I had never discovered the joy of taking a full breath.
I cupped the back of her neck and kissed her over and over again, our tongues stroking and swirling, our breaths mingled, our teeth nipping. Need and lust shot through me with an intensity I’d never felt before hardening my cock and setting my blood on fire.
“Evie,” I whispered against her lips.
She gave me that whimper again and I groaned, sinking back into her mouth, then sucking her tongue into mine. Her strokes were light and tentative, then they were just as forceful and demanding as my own.
This woman was pure flame, thawing everything I’d worked so hard to keep cold, and I couldn’t bring myself to even care as long as she kept kissing me.
“Maxim,” she moaned, arching those glorious breasts against my chest.
My hand slid up her waist to her ribs, and then I paused.
She took my hand and put it on her breast, squeezing slightly.
Then we both moaned. Fuck, she felt so goddamned good in my hands. I nipped at her lower lip and skimmed my hand across her nipple. Too much fabric. There was too much between us, and I wanted my hands on her skin, her bare nipples against my tongue. I needed to hold her, to test every curve, to worship—
Her hands moved and a glass fell against the granite.
A glass.
A shot glass.
Because we’d been drinking.
I ripped my mouth away from hers and stumbled off the stool, nearly knocking it over in my haste to get some distance between us.
“Maxim?” Her eyes were wide and glazed, but was that lust or alcohol? Her lips were so fucking pretty and swollen from my mouth, which tasted just like hers, like the tequila on the counter.
“Fuck,” I swore, ripping my hands over my hair.
“What are you doing?” She stood and I backed up a step.
“I’m so sorry, Evie.” Shame chilled the hottest edges of my need, and yet all I wanted to do was push her against that counter and keep going. I wanted her moaning, keening, begging for my hands, my mouth, my cock. What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
This was Evie.
“Why would you be sorry?” She touched her fingertips to her lips.
“Because you are Mila’s best friend, and you trust me, and I absolutely just took advantage of that trust.” And yet I still couldn’t bring myself to regret it, because now I knew how she tasted.
“I’m fine,” she assured me.
“Right, but you’re not sober, and neither am I. So as fucking hard as this is to say, this has to stop. Right now. I’m going to bed.” I turned and fucking fled, flat-out running away from Evie in my own house, my feet carrying me up the stairs in record time.
“But it’s only five-thirty!” she yelled after me.
“Then I’ll get a good night’s sleep!” I yelled back, shutting my door behind me and locking it for good measure, like that was going to help. The lock would only keep Evie out, but it wouldn’t keep me in.
I wanted more, and that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
Twenty-four hours, later we took the ice against Detroit.
I scored four times.
The backslaps were continuous as we made our way to the locker room, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile, to laugh, to say thank you when the guys congratulated me.
I’d lost the yips.
“You’re cured!” McKittrick shouted with a grin. “What did you do?”
“I have no fucking clue.” But I did.
It wasn’t because I’d hung my keys in the same place, or because I’d chugged that Dr Pepper. It wasn’t because I’d gone through every pregame ritual or magically healed whatever had gone sour in my head, because none of that had changed in the last month.
