CHAPTER fifty-four #9
"God, Caroline," he whispers, "I'm close. Don't stop…"
His teeth graze my shoulder as his body tenses. I shiver, my hand tightening around his cock, my strokes becoming faster, more demanding.
My thumb presses against the underside of his shaft, teasing the sensitive spot that makes him lose his fucking mind.
His breathing turns ragged, his chest heaving as he fights to keep quiet, to keep the table oblivious to the fact that I just gave him the best hand job under the fucking table.
"That's it, baby," I whisper, my voice husky, my lips brushing his ear. "Come for me."
Zach's entire body tenses, his cock pulsing violently in my hand as he comes, hot ropes of cum spilling into his boxers and onto my fingers.
His jaw clenches, eyes slamming shut as he rides out the orgasm, his hips twitching uncontrollably as I milk him dry, my hand working him through every fucking second of it.
When it's over, he slumps back in his chair, his chest heaving, his face flushed with pleasure and exhaustion. I casually wipe my hand with a napkin under the table, my smirk smug and satisfied.
Zach shoots me a look that could've melted steel, his eyes dark with lust and promise. "You're gonna pay for that later," he growls, his voice thick with unspoken threats.
I just smile, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I'm counting on it."
And the table remained blissfully clueless.
The next morning, my eyes flutter open slowly to the smell of something warm, savory, mouthwatering — like someone ordered room service straight from heaven — followed by the rich scent of fresh-brewed coffee. I stretch my arms above my head with a sleepy groan, my joints popping in the best way.
I blink to the side.
Zach's half of the bed is empty.
A second later, I hear the shower running through the cracked bathroom door, steam curling out in soft ribbons.
A sleepy smile pulls at my mouth.
When I sit up, the comforter slides down my bare chest, and I tug it back up before shuffling out of bed.
The first thing I see is the tray of food on the coffee table — eggs, toast, bacon, a muffin, and a giant mug of coffee.
The curtains are already drawn open, and the light filtering into the room is soft, muted. .. almost silver.
Curious, I slide out of bed, dragging the comforter with me like a makeshift robe. The carpet is warm under my feet as I pad toward the table and pick up the mug.
Coffee. Fresh. Rich. Perfect.
The first sip warms my whole chest. I close my eyes for a second just to savor it, to let it melt into me.
Then I take a few steps toward the window—and my breath catches.
It's snowing.
Not aggressively. Not a storm. Just a steady curtain of soft white flakes drifting down from a pale, pearly sky.
The kind of snowfall that looks quiet even when the world isn't. Down below, the streets around the arena are dusted in white, cars creeping carefully, people bundled in coats as they cross parking lots.
Farther out, the shimmer of Lake Superior fades into a foggy blur, like someone erased the horizon with a paintbrush.
I press my free hand to the glass, my face practically glowing with excitement.
God, it's beautiful.
Snow + coffee + a warm hotel room + a naked boyfriend singing in the shower = perfection.
My brain, naturally, goes rogue.
Imagine if we stayed...
Just one extra day.
One day where Zach isn't racing to morning skate and I'm not racing to rehearsal. One day to actually explore Duluth. We could walk along Canal Park, hit those cute little cafés everyone keeps recommending, take stupid pictures like tourists.
Or — oh God — we could go ice skating outside while it's snowing.
Zach showing off, me pretending I don't want to throttle him for being good at everything.
Maybe he'd catch me when I slip. Maybe he'd pretend he didn't do it on purpose.
Maybe we'd kiss in the middle of the rink like one of those disgustingly cheesy romcom couples I secretly judge but also want to be.
The mental image kills me a little.
In the best way.
Ugh. It would be perfect.
A small, dramatic sigh escapes me.
Too bad life isn't a holiday montage.
Because Zach has team meetings, practice, warmups, game day routine — the whole hockey circus.
And I have rehearsals waiting for me the minute we get back, a showcase in two weeks, Betsy breathing down my neck, Adam almost dropping me every other lift, and Keith shouting "engage your core" in my nightmares.
So yeah.
Not the right time.
Not even close.
But damn... it would've been nice.
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle into me as snow keeps falling outside — soft, steady, peaceful — like the world's reminding me to slow down, just for a second.
"You're up."
His voice rolls over me from behind, snapping me right out of my little snowy fantasy.
I turn—and my throat goes bone-dry.
Zach is standing right outside the bathroom, steam curling around him like he personally summoned it.
His hair is wet, the ends in disarray, water slicking the strands against his forehead and temples in a way that makes him look both hotter and more reckless than usual—like some pirate prince washed up on a forbidden shore.
His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp tendrils, rivulets of water charting a maddening path down the strong column of his throat, meandering across the sculpted planes of his chest, tracing each ridge of his abs before disappearing beneath the towel that rides dangerously low on his narrow hips.
My gaze travels upward with agonizing slowness, lingering on the sharp cut of muscle where his torso meets his pelvis, that perfect V-line that makes my mouth go dry. I bite my lip without meaning to.
When I finally reach his face, his silver eyes catch the light like mercury—dangerous and fluid—before they flicker down to my mouth and then back up to meet my gaze.
For a fraction of a second, the look in them is pure electricity.
Of course he notices.
Of course his smirk grows wider.
"You know," he drawls, cocking his head, "I do have other great qualities aside from my body."
I choke on my coffee a little.
He grins like he planned that reaction.
Zach strides toward me, one hand finding my hip like it belongs there, the other steadying the mug in my hands so I don't spill steaming coffee all over both of us. He tugs me in gently, his body warm and still damp from the shower.
He kisses me — soft, slow, barely a brush of lips, but God, it's perfect. His nose nudges mine as he murmurs against my mouth, "Good morning, beautiful."
"Good morning," I say, breath catching a little. "Thanks for bringing breakfast in bed."
"You're welcome." His voice drops, lazy and sinful. "I just figured you wouldn't exactly have the energy to go downstairs today... not after what I did to you last night."
Heat detonates under my skin. My thighs clench on instinct, my core tightening at the vivid, impossible-to-forget reminders of how he touched me — how he took me apart in every single corner of this hotel suite, how he wrung orgasm after orgasm out of me until I thought I'd forget my own name.
His smirk says he reads every filthy memory flashing through my head.
He lifts a hand to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Thank you," he murmurs, expression softening. "For last night. For all of it. I hope... I wasn't too rough."
I shake my head instantly. "You weren't," I whisper. "I loved every second of it."
Something warm and dangerous flickers in his eyes. His thumb rubs my cheek again, amused, tender, so full of adoration it makes my chest bloom with heat.
"You have no idea how much I love making you blush," he says, sounding almost awed.
Before I can answer, his gaze flicks past me — toward the window.
"It's snowing," he says softly.
I turn, smiling. "Yeah."
He steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. His chin settles lightly on my shoulder, the weight warm and grounding as we both stare at the slow, drifting flakes outside.
Duluth looks like a postcard — the harbor dusted white, the Aerial Lift Bridge disappearing slightly in the gray, the streets coated in soft powder.
It's quiet, serene, like the whole city is holding its breath.
"I was thinking," I say, sipping my coffee, "how amazing it would be if we could stay a bit longer. Go exploring. Skate outside while it's snowing. Be disgustingly romantic."
Zach sighs into my neck, dreamy. "Yeah... that would be perfect."
"That's what I thought too. But given our busy schedule, we can't."
He kisses the side of my head. "Well... winter break's coming up. Maybe we can come back here. Stay a few days. Just the two of us. No school, no practice. What do you think?"
My smile stretches so wide it almost hurts. "Yeah. I'd like that, Zach."
We stay there for a moment, just watching the snow fall, tucked into each other like we're exactly where we're meant to be.
Then Zach clears his throat gently. "Come on, babe. Let's eat before the food gets cold."
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "I want breakfast with you before I go meet the team."
And just like that, the morning feels warm, soft, and perfect — snow outside, my boyfriend behind me, and a quiet little pocket of peace before the world kicks back in.
CHAPTER fifty-three
ZACH
It's Monday night, and the boys and I are out in the backyard of The Pond, celebrating Cody's twentieth birthday—because apparently turning twenty means throwing what looks like a half-feral backyard festival with fifty uninvited guests, four busted speakers, and one very overworked grill.
Music pounds through Kentaro's giant portable speaker—even though he swears he didn't bring it ("someone stole it from my room," he'd muttered earlier, glaring directly at Cody).
Colored string lights are tangled across the fence.
Someone dragged our living room couches outside.