Page 22 of In Love with My Secret Husband

Oh, how he was saying her name.

The way he always said it. Low and quiet and careful, like he was holding something precious between his hands, something he knew he didn't deserve to hold but couldn't bring himself to put down.

She looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since she'd walked through the door.

He was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She hated that. She hated that it still caught her off guard, after seven years, the sheer physical fact of him. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his shoulders filled the doorway. His dark eyes, intent and focused, watching her with the same concentration he'd once given to a puck moving at ninety miles an hour.

But there was something different in those eyes tonight. Something she hadn't seen before. Something that looked almost like...fear.

Troy Barrymore was afraid.

Of her.

Of this.

Of the answer she was about to give him.

She didn't know where or how to start. All those things she had promised herself during lunch, all those firm, clear words she had rehearsed fourteen times in her head on the drive home...

They were gone. Every single one.

But when she turned to face him, she didn't get a chance to say another word.

He had already hauled her close, his mouth covering hers, and then somehow...

It was happening all over again.

But this time was different from all the others.

His kiss was slow. Not desperate. Not hungry. Not the urgent, almost-angry collision of two people who couldn't stop wanting each other. This was something else entirely. His hands cradled her face, his thumbs resting against her cheekbones, and he kissed her like they had all the time in the world. Like he was learning the shape of her mouth for the first time.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. She could feel his heart hammering against her knuckles, fast and hard, and it stunned her. The great Troy Barrymore. The man who had never once shown fear on the ice. And his heart was pounding like he was terrified she would push him away.

She didn't push him away.

She pulled him closer.

His hands slid from her face to her neck, then her shoulders, then down her back, drawing her against him until there was no space left. She fit against his body the way she had always fit, her head tucked under his chin, her hips against his, and when she heard the low sound he made against her hair, she felt it vibrate through her entire body.

They were in the hallway. Then on the stairs. His hands were pulling her shirt over her head, and her fingers were fumbling with the buttons on his, and the apron was somehow still tangled around his neck, and she would have laughed if she could breathe.

His mouth traced the line of her throat. She gasped, her head falling back, and his arm caught her waist to steady her.

"Troy..."

His name came out broken. Half whisper, half plea.

He lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, and the feel of his hands under her thighs, the muscles in his arms tensing as he carried her weight effortlessly, the sheer, overwhelmingsizeof him surrounding her...

Their bedroom. Not the guest room.Theirs.

He laid her down on her side of the bed, and the mattress remembered her shape, and so did he.

His mouth found the hollow of her throat. Lingered there. Moved lower. The curve of her collarbone, where she felt his breath warm against her skin. The sensitive spot behind her ear, where her breath always caught.

And it caught now. Sharp and helpless.

"Troy..."