Chapter 20 Théo
I was having an out of body experience.
Tangled around Derek Sullivan, the hard lines of his body pressed against mine. My legs wrapped around his waist. His hands under my shirt, stroking my skin like I was something precious.
Then his fingers curled around the hem and I felt the question in the way he paused.
I pulled back. “Wait. Stop.”
He stopped immediately, hands freezing, breath ragged against my lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically and of course he did. The apology I’d forced out earlier had felt foreign on my tongue. For him, it was reflex.
What the fuck was I doing? Apologizing and then kissing a man like Saint Sully. He was way too fucking good for the world, let alone for me.
I unwrapped my legs and pushed gently at his chest. He stepped back, giving me space. I stayed on the counter because I wasn’t sure my legs would hold me.
“I’m a mess, Derek.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “I get it. The appeal. Beautiful disaster, right? Something to put back together.” I looked at him. “But I’m a thousand glass shards. I’ll cut you at every turn.”
He was quiet for a moment. His chest was still heaving, his lips red and swollen, his hair wrecked from where I’d run my fingers through it. He looked like sin personified, which was ironic given his reputation.
“You think that’s what this is?” he asked finally. “Some saviour complex?”
“Isn’t it?”
He laughed, humourless. “Théo, I’ve been watching you skate for weeks.
Sitting in the back row like a fucking stalker, trying to convince myself I was just there to support a friend.
I’ve watched hours of your competition footage.
I’ve gone down rabbit holes about your career, your rivals, your—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to fix you.”
“Then what?”
He stepped closer. Not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Let’s just say my reasons aren’t as selfless and noble as you think.” His voice dropped. “Yeah, you’re beautiful. Stupidly, unfairly beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes people do dumb shit and I’m clearly not immune.”
I flinched. I’d heard this before. Beautiful. A pretty thing to be admired, collected, displayed.
“But that’s not why I can’t stop thinking about you,” he continued and something in his voice made me look up.
His eyes were serious, intent. “It’s the way you skate like you’re trying to punish yourself and prove something at the same time.
It’s the way you show up at seven in the morning and stay until your feet bleed.
It’s the way you carry yourself like the world can fuck right off if they don’t agree with you. ”
I swallowed hard.
“It’s your determination. Your discipline. The way you throw yourself at something impossible and refuse to quit.” He shook his head. “I play professional hockey. I know what hard work looks like. And you make the rest of us look lazy.”
“That’s not—” My voice cracked. “That’s not something to admire. That’s just me being fucked up.”
“Maybe.” He reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and tucked a damp lock of hair behind my ear. “But I’m not here because I want to save you. I’m here because I see you. And I’m not going anywhere just because you’re scared of being seen.”
I stared at him. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“You’re an idiot,” I whispered.
“Probably.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “But I’m an idiot who knows what he wants.”
He inched forward, pausing, searching my face.
I didn’t move.
He kissed me again. Slowly this time, nothing like the angry clash from before.
This was savouring. Tasting. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world, like I was something worth taking his time with.
One hand came up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking gently across my cheekbone.
I just fucking melted into him.
My hands found his shoulders, his neck, the short hair at the back of his head. I pulled him closer and he came willingly, stepping between my parted legs until I could feel the outline of his erection press against me.
Hard. Undeniable. Wanting me.
I hadn’t wanted someone this badly in so long. Maybe ever. Never a man like Derek, who was handsome and kind and good. The kind of good that wasn’t performed or calculated. The kind of good I didn’t know how to trust.
His hands slid under my shirt again, palms warm against my sides, and I felt my whole body shudder. He started to lift the fabric and I grabbed his wrists.
“Wait.”
He stopped immediately, pulling back to look at me. Patient. Always so fucking patient.
“I need to tell you something first.” My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Small. “Before you see.”
His brow furrowed slightly but he didn’t push. He just waited.
I took a breath. Then another. My fingers were still wrapped around his wrists, holding his hands hostage at my waist.
“I have scars,” I said. The words felt like glass in my throat.
“On my arms. My thighs. They’re…” I couldn’t look at him.
I stared at the collar of his shirt instead, at the steady pulse in his neck.
“I used to cut myself. When the pressure was too much. When everything got too loud and I needed… release.”
The silence stretched between us. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for him to pull away. To make an excuse. To look at me with pity or disgust or that particular expression people got when they realized I was more broken than they’d bargained for.
“They’re ugly,” I whispered. “And once you see them—”
“Théo.” Soft. Firm. He freed one hand and tilted my chin up. “Look at me.”
I looked.
No pity. No disgust. Just that steady warmth.
“Can I see?” he asked.
It wasn’t what I expected. Not I’m sorry or that must have been hard or any of the usual platitudes. Just a question. Simple and direct.
I let go of his other wrist.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted my shirt. I raised my arms and let him pull it over my head. The cool air hit my skin and I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide.
He looked.
The pale flesh of my arms was lined with white scars, some thin as thread, others wider, raised slightly against the skin. They weren’t fresh—hadn’t been for years—but they were there. Evidence. Proof of every moment I’d felt like I was drowning and this was the only way to breathe.
Derek’s expression didn’t change. He reached out and traced one of the scars with his fingertip, feather light. Then another.
“These are part of you,” he said quietly. “They don’t make you less beautiful. They just make you real.”
My eyes were burning. I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry. I didn’t do that. Not in front of people. Not in front of him.
So I kissed him instead.
I pulled him to me and crushed my mouth against his, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. His hands came up to cradle my face and I reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently. He broke the kiss just long enough to let me pull it over his head and then we were skin to skin.
Oh.
He was warm. So warm. Solid muscle and soft skin, that scattering of hair across his chest and down his torso. I ran my hands over him greedily, mapping the planes of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the ridges of his abs. He shivered under my touch and something hot unfurled in my chest.
I did that. I made Derek Sullivan shiver.
His hands were everywhere—my back, my sides, my hips—and then he was lifting me off the counter like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct and he carried me through the apartment, his mouth never leaving mine.
My head was spinning with how fast everything was moving. Which was funny, considering I could spin at 300 revolutions per minute without wobbling. But this—Derek’s hands on me, his body against mine, the bedroom door frame passing in my peripheral vision—this had me completely off-axis.
He set me down on the bed gently, carefully, like I might break. Then he just stood there, looking down at me with an expression so tender it made my chest ache.
Too much. It was too much.
I felt raw. Exposed. Cracked open in a way that had nothing to do with the scars he’d already seen and everything to do with the way he was looking at me like I was something precious. Something worth cherishing.
I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to be cherished.
So I reached between us and palmed his erection through his shorts.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. There. That was easier. That I could understand. Want. Desire. The simple language of bodies.
“Théo—” His voice was strained.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, rubbing him through the cotton, feeling him twitch and harden further under my hand.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something special.”
He caught my wrist, stilling my hand. I looked up at him, expecting frustration, but his eyes were soft. Impossibly soft.
“You are something special,” he said.
“Derek—”
“But if you need this to be about sex right now, that’s okay.” He released my wrist and leaned down, bracing himself over me, his mouth hovering just above mine. “We can do that. Just know that it doesn’t change anything for me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I pulled him down and kissed him again, arching up so our bare chests pressed together, so I could feel his heartbeat against mine.
I flicked open the button of his shorts and pulled down the zipper, reaching inside his boxer briefs to grip his erection. His responding groan was absolutely delicious and I swallowed the sound, kissing him deeper as I stroked him slowly.
“Fuck, Théo.” He broke the kiss, panting against my mouth. “That feels incredible.”
“Have you done this before?” I asked. “With a man?”
“No.” His voice was strained. “I’ve never—Mackenzie was the only person I’ve ever been with.”
I stilled.
He had only ever been with one person. At 28 years old.