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CHAPTER ONE
DELANEY
One hand is tangled in my hair, and the other settles on my waist like it belongs there. Like he belongs there. Which is ridiculous, because the only place this man has ever belonged is on the ice.
“Caught you.” The corner of his mouth lifts, reminding me how much I hate his smile. I hate the dimples that come with it. And I especially hate the way the rest of the world seems to fade whenever he looks at me like that.
It’s just Him. Me. And the thousands of butterflies swarming dangerously low in my belly.
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but I wasn’t staring.” I refuse to be the first to break eye contact.
P.S. I was totally staring.
“Right.” He draws out the word, his voice all rasp and swagger, like he knows how this ends. His thumb moves lazily along the strip of bare skin between my sweater and leggings; my body answers with a shiver. “And I’m not touching you.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Probably not.” He leans closer. “You want me to stop?”
Yes. Obviously. Absolutely.
“No.”
His grin disappears, and suddenly, there’s nothing playful about the way he’s looking at me. Because I’m not about to stop whatever this thing is he’s started. I’ve waited far too long to cross this line.
My heartbeat skips, then comes back twice as fast as his finger tightens around my hip. One tug and my body is flush with his. Hard muscle against every soft part of me.
His head dips, not towards my mouth… lower. Soft lips brush the corner of my jaw before trailing tortuously slowly down my neck. And when my breath catches, he pauses. Not because he’s unsure, but because he knows exactly what he’s doing. Because apparently, even when he’s driving me insane, he has to make me admit what I want.
“How about now?”
“You talk too much.” I arch into his touch without meaning to, but I am desperate for more.
A low laugh rumbles against my skin. “Funny. You weren’t complaining a minute ago when you were staring at my mouth.”
“I wasn’t–”
His teeth scrape lightly beneath my ear, stealing the rest of my argument.
Jerk.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Only when it turns you on.”
His capable hand moves beneath the hem of my sweater, warm fingers skimming my stomach. And when the thick knit slips from one shoulder, his lips follow. One kiss turns into two, and I lose count as his mouth traces my collarbone while his hand slides higher and higher, until his fingertips brush the lace at the edge of my bra.
Every coherent thought disappears when he lowers the cup, replacing the lace with his heated palm. My nipple hardens from the attention.
The bulky sweater bunches between us, tangled and inconvenient, like everything we’ve spent years refusing to say. I should stop him. I should remind him why this is a terrible idea. But the ache building between my legs feels too good.
Instead, I fist both hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. When I do, I feel just how much he wants this too.
My heart stutters.
I knew it.
I knew I hadn’t imagined all those looks. The way his eyes lingered when he thought I wasn’t watching. And now he’s done pretending.
