Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Or I could let you control me,” I tease, but Luke doesn’t smile. He knows I’m not trying to run from this conversation.
Luke stands and pulls me up too. His hands rest on my waist.
“What are you feeling right now?” he asks.
I look at him, this boy who tracked me down, who left practice for me, who laces my skates like they’re the most important thing in the world.
“Now, I’m terrified,” I admit. “Because I’m all in, Luke. I don’t know how to do things halfway. And if something happens to you—”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
He pulls me closer until our foreheads touch, his breath warm against my skin.
“Then we’ll be terrified together,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.” I love hearing him say that.
We step onto the ice and glide to the center of the empty rink. For this moment, I let myself believe him. I turn myself over to him, trusting he’ll take care of my heart the same way he has everything else when it comes to me.
“All right, Buttercup. Why don’t you show me something?” Luke says as he pushes off backward, facing me. “Impress me.”
I laugh, my voice echoing in the empty rink. “You hockey boys! Everything turns into a competition with you.”
“It’s hard not to when you’re always winning.” He gives me a cocky but playful grin. But he has reason to be cocky. He kills it on the ice and often almost kills others on it too.
I do what I know these giant-ass athletes can’t. I take off, picking up speed, feel the familiar glide, and then launch into a simple spin. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean. When I stop, he’s watching, eyebrows raised.
“All right,” he says. “My turn.”
He takes off, trying to copy, arms outstretched, blades scratching loudly. He makes it halfway around before his edges betray him, his arms windmilling. I slide over and catch his elbow, steadying him, both of us laughing.
“Smooth,” I say.
“All right, brat.”
He retaliates by challenging me to a race, laps around the rink. I already know I’m not going to win this even with my long-ass legs to help: his power against my control, him winning on the turns, and me almost catching him on the straightaways. I think he let me. Next time I’ll bring my hockey skates. Give him a real run for his money. We’re breathless, cheeks flushed, all the shit from today sliding off us with every push.
Finally, he slows down, grabs my hand, and pulls me backward so I’m facing him. We glide together, his fingers tangled with mine, the ice whispering under us. We don’t say anything. It’s just movement, breath, and the quiet of being together in this place that’s ours. Doing something that we’re both good at.
I thought skating would burn off the sexual tension from earlier, but I’m finding that’s not the case. I may have seen Luke skate before, but actually being on the ice with him, I can feel the power with each stride he takes. Without the padding on, I can see the way his muscles flex with the movements. I’m more worked up now than I was in the car earlier, and that’s saying a lot.
“You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to take you down to the ice.” His words penetrate the haze I was in. The one where I was imagining the way he would look with his broad shoulders between my thighs, his muscles flexing as he made me his. “Would you like that, Buttercup?” I lick my lips. I would, but I’m all sweaty.
“I’m kind of gross,” I admit.
“Shower it is,” Luke says, his voice rough. “They’ve got facilities here.”
I look at him. The shift hangs between us, playing to something else. Should I say yes? I want to, and I really don’t want fear to rule, so I jump.
“Okay.” Luke sucks in an audible breath. “Didn’t think I was going to say that?”
“Buttercup, I promise you keep me on my toes.”
“Is that a good or bad thing?”
“Both.” He takes my hand, leading us off the ice to remove our skates.
The locker room gleams with polished wood and brushed metal. There are individual stalls with nameplates and leather benches. The shower area is tiled in slate gray with several showerheads overhead. Glass panels separate each shower, frosted for privacy. Everything here feels expensive.
“Is this okay?” he asks as he flips a switch and the water comes on, cascading from above in wide sheets. He tests it with his hand, adjusts the temperature, and then turns to look at me. Really look.
I nod. “Yes. This is okay.”
He crosses the space between us, slow and deliberate. “I want to undress you. Can I?” I nod, fighting back shyness. “We only go as far as you want. Got it?”