Chapter 81 Willow
Willow
Loved.
That’s what I feel after four days of pampering. Every pillow fluffed, every cup of tea handed over without asking, every foot rub and gentle touch—proof that they’re not just mine in theory. They’re mine in action. But as sweet as it’s been, I’m ready for something more.
I want movement. Sweat. Laughter echoing off rink walls, and the satisfying burn in my thighs after practice. I want progress—roller derby, pack decisions, making things real with Landon and Finn.
Something. Anything.
Hunter drops down beside me on the couch in their house—our house now.
That realization hits in waves, but it’s true.
They’ve made it ours. Every corner of the space reflects that—from the pink tea kettle on the stove to the skate shelf mounted by the front door.
They’ve even set up rooms for Landon and Finn without so much as blinking.
“How’re you feeling today, princess?” Hunter asks, bumping my knee with his.
“Like I’m going to explode out of my skin if I don’t get some activity in,” I say, flopping dramatically against the cushions.
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Landon suggested taking you to the track for some light practice. If you’re up for it.”
My heart does this giddy little lurch, and I sit up straighter. “Yes! Absolutely. I’ll go get my stuff.”
“Slow down,” he says with a grin, grabbing my wrist before I can bolt. “You’ve got time. He went with Carson to the store. Apparently, they’ve both developed a thing for your happy moans when you eat. They’re bonding over which foods get the best sounds.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s weirdly sweet—and vaguely threatening.”
Hunter winks. “You’re the one who made orgasm sounds over that cinnamon roll last night. Carson looked like he was about to propose to the bakery.”
That tracks.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying not to laugh louder, but it slips out anyway.
The warmth that blooms in my chest isn’t just from the teasing—it’s from the way these five men are starting to form their own rhythm.
Their own unit. A pack that doesn’t just revolve around me, but includes each other, too.
“Where are Graham and Finn?”
Hunter’s mouth twitches. “Also shopping. But last I heard, Finn was dragging Graham through a camera store, insisting he needs a full upgrade. Lenses, lighting, some kind of ‘necessary’ editorial printer—oh, and his own personal development studio in the basement.”
I raise a brow. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious. He claims it’s vital for his art. And because, and I quote, ‘no one outside this pack is qualified to handle the full-frontal masterpieces he’s capturing.’”
I groan, hiding my face in my hands. “I swear to God, if he prints any of those…”
“No one’s seeing you naked but us, Willow,” Hunter murmurs, his voice dipping lower with just enough edge to make my pulse stutter. “That’s not negotiable.”
I glance over, and his gaze is steady, protective. Not possessive. Just sure.
“Noted,” I whisper, the tension shifting into something heavier. Something hotter.
Hunter leans closer, his fingers brushing my jaw before he presses a kiss to my temple. “Get dressed, little hurricane. Practice is happening, even if it’s just a few laps.”
I nod and rise from the couch, my chest buzzing with anticipation.
Loved. Protected. Seen.
And more than ready to put my skates back on.
Landon pushes open the door and holds it for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as I step through. I don’t miss the way his eyes trail over me—starting at my laced skates and skating up the length of my legs, lingering on my hips, my mouth.
The rink smells of waxed floors and old skates, the kind of scent that seeps into your soul if you’ve skated long enough. The lights hum overhead, casting a cool blue sheen across the polished surface. It’s empty. Ours. The quiet kind of sacred.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he asks, lips twitching. “I don’t want to be the guy who re-injures your ribs with flirt skating.”
I smirk. “First of all, flirt skating is not a real thing.”
“It should be,” he says. “It’s like regular skating, but with better outfits and more sexual tension.”
I nudge his hip with mine, biting back a grin at his lame joke. “I’ll survive. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
Landon rolls out onto the rink, arms out wide. He turns to face me and skates backward—effortlessly. Showoff.
“Come on, then,” he calls, eyes glinting. “Impress me.”
I push off and glide toward him, body already humming with the rhythm I’ve missed. Every curve of the track is as familiar as home. I weave toward him, then dodge at the last second, making him laugh.
We loop around together, lazy at first. A few warm-up laps, our fingers grazing every so often, our shoulders brushing on the curves. The tension builds slowly, the heat simmering under the surface.
And then he reaches for my hand—lacing our fingers together—and the contact steals my breath more than any spin or sprint ever has.
“You seem all better,” he murmurs.
I look up at him through my lashes. “I think I am ready for action, Coach.”
“Yeah?” he asks, voice rougher now. “What kind of action?”
I hum a non-answer, and he releases my hand. He skates ahead of me, then circles back, catching me off guard. His hand finds my waist, guiding me backward, slow but sure, until my back touches the cool cinderblock wall at the edge of the rink.
He doesn’t crowd me. He leans in just enough for the air to go thick.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says quietly. “Of you. Skates on. Flushed cheeks. That mouth.”
My breath catches.
“I used to imagine skating with you all the time,” I admit, heart racing. “After I found out you did derby? My brain practically wrote fanfiction.”
That makes him grin, soft and surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers slide down my arms, slow, reverent. Then he cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“And what happened in your daydreams?” he practically whispers against my mouth.
“I don’t know,” I lie, breathless. “Why don’t you show me?”
His lips crash into mine before I finish the sentence.
He kisses the same way he skates—confident, commanding, and devastating in all the right ways. My hands grip the front of his shirt as his mouth moves over mine, deepening the kiss until I forget where we are, who might be watching, what time it is.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathless. His forehead rests against mine.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed you, too,” I say. “Even when I hated you a little.”
He grins. “Fair. I deserved that.”
“I’m still keeping score.”
“Good,” he says, brushing a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I plan on making it up to you. Every point.”
His hands stay on my waist, fingers flexing into me, memorizing the curve of me. I can feel the heat in him, barely contained under that easy grin. But it’s in his eyes too. Something deeper. Something aching.
“I meant it,” I whisper. “About wanting more moments like this.”
He leans in again, mouth brushing my jaw, down to the soft place under my ear. “Tell me how many,” he murmurs. “How many do you want?”
“All of them,” I breathe. “Every one I thought I lost.”
He groans softly, as though I’ve hit something raw inside him. One hand slides under the hem of my top, spreading wide against my bare back. His palm is warm—steadying—but his mouth is pure sin. He kisses down the column of my throat, slow and careful, savoring everything he’s missed.
“You still smell like mine,” he says, voice rough against my skin. “Even with their marks. Even with everything.”
I shiver. “You scent-matched me first.”
“Only match that ever mattered to me,” he growls. “But you can never have too many people who love you.”
Then he lifts me enough for our skates to shift and my body to slide against his. I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. He backs me harder into the wall, hips pressing close, and the contact—God, the contact—sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
“I used to dream about kissing you here at the rink,” he says, lips brushing mine, “and then skating around the track while your scent clung to me like a damn brand. So everyone knew who I belonged to.”
I grin against his mouth. “You’re such a nerd.”
He bites my lower lip in retaliation, making me gasp again, and then soothes it with his tongue. “I’m your nerd.”
“That better not be your claiming line.”
“Would it work?”
“Yes.”
He laughs, breath hot against my cheek. “Good to know.”
Then his hand curves around my thigh, lifting it, hitching it against his hip. My body arches into him, ribs be damned.
We don’t move for a minute. We just breathe.
And it’s not the kiss that undoes me—it’s the way he looks at me.
Like I’m it. Still. Always.
“Landon…”
“I’m right here,” he says, resting his forehead against mine again. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
The moment stretches—intimate, charged, and quiet in a way that doesn’t need filling.
Then from somewhere near the entrance, a loud, unapologetic voice echoes:
“Okay, lovebirds. Time’s up before both of you end up naked on the rink.”
Carson.
I laugh and bury my face in Landon’s neck.
He sighs dramatically and shouts back, “You’re just jealous!”
“You’re not wrong!” Carson calls. “But Graham says ribs still need rest, so wrap it up.”
Landon kisses my temple before setting me back on the floor. “We’ll pick this up later.”
“Promise?”
“Swear it.”
He winks and offers me his hand, pretending we’re about to perform a flawless couples skate at prom. I take it, grinning, flushed, a little breathless.
My world is absolute chaos—but for once, it feels as if it’s finally falling into place.