Chapter Three #2
The compliment, following so closely on the heels of that endearment rolling from his lips, catches me off guard. "Thanks."
He smirks. "You're also the only one on staff who doesn't look at me like I'm a science experiment."
He's not entirely wrong. He's thirty-eight. Most guys have retired from the league by his age. But Trent? Well, he just won't give up. He wasn't built that way.
"You're not a science experiment. You're just…
complicated," I offer. It's not that, though.
Not really. Trent's simple enough if you understand him.
Hockey is his home, his safe place. It's the one place in the world where he knows exactly how and where he fits, where he's in control.
He doesn't want to give that up. And as someone who has never really had a safe place or much control, I get it even if no one else does.
He grins, stretching again. "I'll take that as a compliment."
We lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only by the ticking of a fancy wall clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
It's nice in an odd kind of way. I don't get a lot of quiet time with the guys.
Usually, they're either loud and annoying as hell, or they're so wrapped up in their own drama that I feel like an NPC in their world.
But Trent is different. He's cocky, sure. Sometimes, he's even grumpy as hell, but he's also attentive. He listens. And, apparently, he likes my fudge enough to nearly die for it.
After a while, I notice his breathing has evened out. He's not asleep, but he's close. His head tilts back, his lips parting. I could get up and sneak out, but something holds me in place.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the fact that I've been running on pure cortisol since well before sunrise, but I let myself relax. Just for a minute.
And then I hear the faintest little snore.
I bite back a laugh, peeking over at him.
"You're snoring," I tease.
His eyes pop open, his expression lazy and amused. "Am not."
"Are too."
He hits me with another of those panty-melting grins. "You're hearing things, Sunshine."
I roll my eyes. "Go back to sleep, Kirk."
But he's not letting me off that easily. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, and looks at me with a seriousness that's almost alarming.
"Hey," he says, his voice intense in a way it wasn't just a moment before. "Thank you for taking care of me today. Even if you did try to kill me."
I don't know what to say, so I settle for, "Anytime. "
He studies me for a long moment, then nods, satisfied, and settles back onto the couch. Within two minutes, he's actually snoring.
I sit there, staring at the city lights, wondering how on earth I'm supposed to ever look him in the eye again. I almost killed him. He almost died. But here we are, just chilling on his couch, and somehow, it feels like maybe the worst day ever turned out to be…kind of amazing, actually.
I'm not about to admit that to anyone, though.
Especially not to Trent Kirk.
S leep is a nonstarter when my body is still vibrating, but the longer he snores, the more anxious I get. I should leave. I should get out now, while he's drooling into the throw pillow and can't see me panic-walk to the elevator.
But I don't.
Instead, I scroll my phone, watching reels and triple-checking the group chat for news of a freakout or, God forbid, another allergic reaction to my culinary offerings. But there's nothing but the usual memes and a photo of someone's bare ass getting taped up after practice.
I'm about to send a snarky comment when I hear Trent shift behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find him scratching his neck. His eyes are still closed, but his fingers are digging hard at a red patch by his collarbone.
I launch into professional mode before I can stop myself. "Do you want a staph infection? Stop scratching."
He doesn't stop, so I slap his hand away. It's not gentle. I have four foster brothers. I know the precise amount of force to use to get attention without causing an injury.
His eyes snap open, equal parts surprised and amused. "You have a mean right hook."
"You have the impulse control of a toddler," I snap, grabbing his wrist to keep him still while I examine his neck for damage. He grins, and then—somehow—I'm lurching sideways, half falling, half being pulled directly onto his lap.
There is a moment of pure, unfiltered chaos as I try to untangle myself, but his arms are already around my waist, and I'm straddling the world's most gorgeous, infuriating man. My heart does a triple axel. My brain checks out completely.
"Sorry," I mutter, or maybe I just mouth it, because there's suddenly not enough oxygen in the room. His hands are big and hot on my hips. There's about six inches between our faces. Six inches that I desperately want to close .
I try to scramble up, but Trent just grins, all wolfish and lazy. "Relax, baby. I don't bite unless asked."
And there it is. That endearment again. The one wreaking havoc on my womb.
I try to reassemble a scrap of dignity, but it's not working, not with his hands still locked around my waist and his eyes locked on my mouth. My mind is a parade of screaming, contradictory commands.
Sit still! Flee! Scream! Kiss him!
I am not going to kiss him. I'm not. I'm a medical professional. I'm his medical professional. This is against every rule in the book. Maybe not the literal book, but the unwritten one that says, "Don't bang your patients, especially when you just spent the day patching them up in the ER."
He must see the panic, because his grin shifts from cocky to gentle. His voice drops to a gritty hush. "You're so fucking beautiful."
The words stop me cold. I blink, unsure if I heard him right. "What?"
"You're fucking beautiful, baby." His thumb brushes my hip, slow and deliberate. "You ever hear that before?"
"Not from anyone with a pulse," I blurt. He laughs, and I want to crawl under the couch and die.
Instead, I muster the willpower to break free. Only, when I push against his chest, he barely budges. I have as much effect on him as a decorative pillow. A decorative pillow with feelings and a panic disorder.
"Shouldn't you be unconscious?" I babble. "Or at least pretending to be?"
"Can't sleep with you here," he says, and now his smile is just…soft. "You're too distracting."
There is an entire marching band playing against my ribcage right now.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, because it's all I can manage.
He tips his head up, closes the gap to three inches, maybe two. "Should be obvious by now." His breath is warm against my lips. "I'm getting ready to kiss you."
Oh.
Oh.
I should get up. I should say no. But I don't. Because he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the world, and for once, I want to know what it feels like to be wanted like that.
So I kiss him.
Or maybe he kisses me. Either way, our mouths meet in the middle, tentative at first, then hungry. He's careful, like he doesn't want to break me. But I don't want careful.
I want reckless.
I want him .
I slide my hands up his chest, and his tongue grazes my lower lip, asking permission.
I open for him, and he groans into my mouth, the sound low and desperate.
His hands squeeze my hips, then my lower back, then up into my hair, pulling me down like he's drowning and I'm the only thing keeping him afloat.
He tastes like chocolate and mouthwash, and a little bit of danger. He sounds like a grizzly, a hungry growl vibrating from his chest. It's…perfect. Completely perfect.
When I finally pull away, I'm breathless and so red I could be mistaken for an actual traffic cone. Trent just watches me, that wolfish grin back in place, like he's won something important.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he says, his voice rough.
I can't even answer. My brain has left the building.
He brushes his thumb across my cheek, slow and sweet, and I have to close my eyes so I don't lose my composure completely.
"You're a menace," I whisper. "An actual menace."
A loud bark of laughter leaves his lips before he buries his face against my shoulder. "You have no idea," he murmurs, his mouth moving over my neck.
I feel his tongue against my pulse and cling to his shirt like I might float away otherwise. For once, I don't care that I'm not supposed to be here, or that I could lose my job, or that tomorrow the whole team will know. For once, I just want.
And right now, I want him to kiss me again.
I tug on his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine.
The thing about kissing Trent, though, is that he doesn't do anything halfway.
Not hockey, not eating, and definitely not kissing.
What starts as a tentative, almost featherlight brush of his lips against mine quickly morphs into a full-on, oxygen-depleting, soul-melting kiss that turns my entire brain to mush.
My nipples are hard. My panties are drenched.
And my clit is throbbing so hard I might actually orgasm like this.
His hands are in my hair, his lips soft but greedy, and I'm so high on the moment that I don't even realize my phone is buzzing with another text until he pulls back, panting.
I try to catch my breath. So does he. We both just…stare.
For the first time in my life, I'm at a total loss for words. I can't even assemble a single complete thought.
He's the first to recover. He lifts a hand to my cheek, his thumb gentle against my burning skin. "Holy shit," he murmurs, his voice so low I barely hear it over the hammering of my heart.
I try to play it cool, but when I feel his erection against my ass, my voice comes out two octaves higher than normal. "Is that a side effect of the steroids, or are you just happy to see me?"
He laughs, and the sound is so warm and genuine that I feel it all the way to my toes. "Both," he says, grinning up at me. "But mostly the second one. "
I try to slide off his lap, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he shifts so I'm tucked up against his chest, one arm draped around me like he has every right to keep me here.
"Should we…talk about this?" I ask, gesturing between us with one trembling hand. It's not like I know what to say, though. Trent just kissed me. Or I kissed him. Whatever. There was tongue involved.
He nods, serious now. "I've been fucking dying to do that since you joined the team." He leans his forehead against mine. "You're the best part of my week."
My heart is a rocket, launching into space. I have a comeback, but it evaporates when he drags his fingers through my ponytail and tugs me forward for a softer, slower kiss. This one is different—less about fireworks, more about promises.
I believe him.
And then my brain catches up.
"Trent," I say, pushing back just enough to think. "I'm your physical therapist."
His eyes sparkle, wicked and bright. "Not right now, you're not."
He kisses me again, and I almost let him win. Almost.
"I mean it," I say, breaking free with the last shred of my willpower. "This is—this is so against protocol. I could get fired. There could be a scandal. It could be bad!"
He blinks, then laughs. "I'm pretty sure protocol says you're not allowed to risk my life with fudge, either, but here we are, anyway."
"Trent!"
He gets serious, just for a second. "Baby, I'm not trying to get you in trouble. I was serious when I said I've been dying to do that since I met you. But if you want me to stop, just say the word. It might fucking kill me, but I'll stop. Okay?"
There's a challenge in his eyes. A dare.
I should say the word. I should walk away. But all that comes out is, "Why me?"
He cups my cheek, grinning, and it's so genuine I feel like I'm floating again.
"You're smart. You're funny. You're the only person who tells me to shut up when I need to hear it.
You're sexy as hell, especially when you're mad, or anxious, or feeling feisty.
You have a big heart. And I've been wild about you since I met you.
Is that enough reasons, or should I keep going? "
"I almost killed you," I remind him.
He shrugs, running his hands along my sides. "Worth the risk."
I try not to melt. I fail spectacularly, but I try.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. He's scared, too. Trent doesn't do relationships. He never has. And this has the potential to complicate both of our lives in all kinds of unexpected ways.
"You ever seen yourself in a mirror when you're working?" he teases. "You have Resting Don't-Fuck-with-Me Face. I was ninety percent sure you hated me until last week."
I make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a snort. "I do not." And then I frown. "What changed last week?"
"You do," he insists, grinning like an idiot.
"But I like that about you." He looks up, serious again.
"I also like you. And you changed last week.
You gave me this look after the game, and I don't fucking know.
I just knew that you were proud of me in a way you weren't with anyone else on the team.
I fucking loved that feeling, Sunshine."
I stare at him, my body tingling in a way that's new and exciting.
I want to believe he means what he's saying. God, I do. But another part of me—the one that's fully aware that he's one of the sports world's Most Eligible—whispers that this is a fluke, a fever dream brought on by Benadryl, trauma, and maybe even low blood sugar.
"Are you still high on hospital drugs?" I blurt.
He snorts. "Want to wait until they wear off and ask me again?"
I consider it. "Maybe."
He softens. "Let me pretend that you're mine, just for tonight.
Let me hold you in my bed. If you still hate the idea of us in the morning, we can pretend it was just the drugs and it never happened.
I'll fucking hate every second of pretending, but if it's what makes you happy, I'll find a way to live with it.
Just…give me one night to hold you, Dani. "
There's a plea in his eyes. He's as scared as I am.
Maybe that's what convinces me. Or maybe it's the fact that I want this so badly I can't say no.
I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I do.
Maybe he is still high and will regret it in the morning.
If so, I can deal with it then. But for right now?
I want this more than I've ever wanted anything.
I don't know what happens next. I don't know if this is the beginning of a disaster or the start of something worth risking my career for.
All I know is that, right now, I'm exactly where I want to be. And I think maybe he is too.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.
I sigh, leaning my head on his shoulder. "Fine. But if you snore in my ear, I'm calling Sandra and telling her you're hoarding carbs."
He laughs, squeezing me tight. "Deal."