Chapter 20
Holly
What do you say to a grief that deep? To a loss that changed his entire life?
So I don’t speak. Instead, I reach out, my fingers brushing the back of his hand. His skin is cold, damp from the floodwater we’ve been battling, and rough with callouses. He flinches slightly but he doesn’t pull away.
My thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles over the tense ridges of his knuckles, over the scar near his thumb – a small, pale line, probably from a hockey fight years ago.
His head drops forward, his dark hair falling over his forehead, shielding his eyes. The rigid line of his shoulders tremble. The powerful defenseman, the man who commands the ice with intimidating grace, looks unbearably vulnerable.
Without thinking, driven by an instinct deeper than words, I shift closer. I slide my hand from his, up his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the damp sleeve of his shirt, tense as coiled wire.
“Denton,” I whisper.
He doesn’t lift his head. But he leans into my touch, just a fraction. The trembling in his shoulders intensifies.
A low, ragged sob tears from his throat. It’s the most devastating thing I’ve ever heard. His body curls inward slightly, his forehead coming to rest against my shoulder.
I put my arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer. His face presses into the curve of my neck, his breath hot and damp against my skin. His arms wrap around my waist, clutching me with a desperate strength, like I’m the only solid thing in a world dissolving around him.
My hands move slowly over his broad back, tracing the powerful muscles beneath the wet fabric, trying to soothe the tremors, to absorb some of the pain radiating from him.
My own tears slip free, tracing paths through the grime on my cheeks, falling into his dark hair. I cry for the woman he lost, for the little girl who lost her mother, for the years of silent grief he’s carried. And I cry for the sheer, breathtaking courage it took for him to confide in me.
Eventually, the tremors subside. The desperate clutch of his arms around my waist loosens, though he doesn’t pull away. His breathing evens out, deep and slow, his forehead still resting heavily on my shoulder.
He shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, shadowed, his lashes spiky with moisture. The raw vulnerability in his eyes steals my breath.
One of his hands lifts from my waist, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush a stray tear from my cheek. The rough pad of his thumb traces the damp path it left, his gaze locked on mine.
His thumb stills on my cheekbone. His gaze drops to my lips, then flicks back up, holding mine.
Slowly, giving me every chance to pull back, he leans in.
This kiss isn’t like the one under the mistletoe. This is different. Deeper. A slow, deliberate exploration. A soft sigh escapes me, lost against his mouth. I open for him, inviting him in.
He responds with a low groan that comes from deep in his chest, a sound of surrender and need.
His hand cups the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. His other arm tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The heat of his body, even through our damp clothes, is intoxicating.
I melt into him. I pull him closer, deepening the kiss, meeting his tenderness with my own.
He breaks the kiss slowly, reluctantly, and our breath mingles, warm in the cool air.
“Holly,” he murmurs. His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
“Denton,” I whisper back, my voice husky.
He kisses me again. This time, there’s no hesitation. No careful exploration. It’s a claiming. Deep and hungry.
Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outwards, warming me from the inside out despite the chill of my damp clothes.
My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
He moans again, the sound vibrating against my lips, and his hands move from my face and waist, sliding down my back, pulling me impossibly closer, until there’s not an inch of space between us.
The sensation of his body against mine is overwhelming—his solid chest, his thighs pressing against mine, the strength in his arms. But the cold dampness of my clothes and the hard floor beneath us are impossible to ignore.
My back aches from hours of cleanup, and despite the heat building between us, I'm still shivering.
I pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. They're dark with desire, but also questioning, worried he's pushed too far.
"My apartment's upstairs," I whisper, my voice unsteady. "It's dry. And warm."
His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something more intense. For a terrifying moment, I think he's going to pull away, retreat behind those walls again.
Instead, he brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. "Are you sure?"
The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes me. "Very sure."
He stands first, pulling me to my feet. My legs feel wobbly, partly from exhaustion, partly from the way he's looking at me. He doesn't let go of my hand as I lead him to the narrow staircase that connects to my apartment above.
I'm acutely aware of his presence behind me as we climb the stairs – the sound of his breathing, the slight creak of the stairs beneath his weight.
As we enter my apartment, I’m embarrassed by the mess. There are dishes in the sink and half-folded laundry on the couch.
But he doesn’t seem to notice at all. He pulls me to him and kisses me deeply, wrapping his strong arms around my back.
His lips are intoxicating, demanding yet tender, and I'm lost in the sensation. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the damp fabric. I break the kiss just long enough to grasp the hem of his henley.
Our eyes lock as I slowly pull it upward, revealing inch by inch of his tight abs and his incredibly broad chest. He lifts his arms, helping me, and I toss the shirt aside.
"Oh," I whisper, unable to form a coherent thought.
His chest is a masterpiece—sculpted muscle under smooth skin marked with a few scattered scars that only enhance his raw masculinity.
A light dusting of dark hair narrows as it trails down his stomach.
I can't help but stare, my fingers hovering just above his skin, suddenly shy despite my boldness moments ago.
"Good god," I murmur, finally letting my fingertips trace the contours of his chest.
He pulls me close again, his bare skin warm against me through my damp clothes. The contrast makes me shiver and he notices immediately.
"You're freezing," he says, his hands rubbing my arms gently. "We need to get you out of these wet clothes."
There's concern in his voice, but also unmistakable desire. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, but before he pulls it up he asks permission. “Is this okay?”
"Yes," I breathe, lifting my arms. "Please."
His fingers brush against my skin as he grasps the hem, sending shivers across my body that have nothing to do with the cold. He pulls my shirt up slowly, his eyes never leaving mine until the fabric blocks our view.
I stand before him in just my plain beige cotton bra, suddenly self-conscious.
It's a bit worn, with a tiny frayed thread at the strap—not the lacy, sexy kind I would have chosen if I'd known this morning that I'd be standing half-naked in front of Denton Blake tonight.
But the way he's looking at me makes me forget all about my underwear choices.
His eyes travel over my exposed skin, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist. The hunger in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"You are..." he starts, his voice rough. "God, Holly."
He reaches out, his fingertips tracing a line from my collarbone down to the edge of my bra. His touch is feather-light but leaves fire in its wake. I shiver again, but not from cold clothes this time.
"You're still cold," he murmurs, misinterpreting my reaction.
Before I can correct him, he pulls me against his chest, his arms encircling me. He's so warm, like a furnace, and I press closer, seeking his heat.
His mouth finds mine again, more urgent now, and I melt into him. My hands explore the broad expanse of his back, tracing the ridges of muscle.
“Do you want to get out of the rest of your clothes?” I ask. “I can throw them in the dryer for you.”
As soon as I ask the question, I immediately realize how ridiculous it sounds. Like I'm just concerned about his wet clothes rather than what I actually want—which is him naked, completely. A blush creeps up my neck as I recognize the transparent pretense.
A knowing smile curves his lips. "That would be great," he says, voice dropping to a husky rasp that sends shivers across my skin.
He unfastens his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down in one fluid motion. I can't help but stare at him standing completely naked in my living room, all sculpted muscle and raw masculinity. My mouth goes dry at the sight.
"Your turn," he murmurs, the hunger in his gaze emboldening me.
I fumble with my own jeans, fingers clumsy with desire. He watches intently as I push them down along with my panties, his eyes drinking me in. With trembling hands, I reach behind my back and unhook my bra, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of our clothes.
I bend down to gather the wet clothes. "Let me just throw these in the—"
But I don't finish the sentence. In one fluid motion, Denton steps forward and sweeps me into his arms. His mouth claims mine in a kiss so deep and consuming that all thoughts of the wet clothes leave my mind. I melt against him, my body molding to his, my arms wrapping around his neck.
My knees go weak as his hands slide down to cup my ass, and he lifts me off my feet. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, gasping at the intimate contact of our naked bodies pressed together.
"Which way?" he asks in my ear.
"First door on the right," I whisper, nodding toward the short hallway.