Prologue #2
His hands shook slightly as he opened the packet.
"Come here," I said.
He moved up my body, lean muscle shifting over me and skin fever-hot against mine. I pulled him into a kiss while I slicked his fingers with the lube. He reached between us.
I rolled my head back when he pushed two fingers inside.
Tight. I was so tight.
He worked me open slowly, fingers spreading.
I stared at him.
He hit the spot. "Damn—" My eyes opened wider. "Fuck, do that again."
He did. Probing, massaging, and stroking until I was shaking.
He pulled his fingers out and grabbed the condom, rolled it on without looking away from my face.
He pushed my legs back, positioned himself, and thrust.
Inch by inch. He gripped my thighs, nails digging in slightly, while my breath came in quick gasps.
I let him set the pace. "Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—"
The room was full of the sounds of our sex: skin slapping skin, ragged breathing, and the thud of the headboard against the wall.
I met his rhythm, rocking my hips forward, and the sound he made was so filthy I nearly lost it right then.
The temperature between us climbed—sweat slicking every point of contact, the air thick with sex and heat and the salt-musk smell of both of us. I could taste it when I breathed.
"Touch yourself," he said. "Let me watch."
I wrapped my right hand around my cock, stroking in time with his movements. I'd never seen anything hotter. Roman Wilder, shit-hot rookie with his entire career ahead, taking what he needed and giving me back everything.
"I'm close," I gasped. "Roman, I—"
"Let me feel it."
I came, exploding onto my chest.
My ass tightened around him. Seconds later, he came apart with me. His hands dug into my chest, bracing, shuddering.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he collapsed forward onto my chest, breathing like he'd just played sudden-death overtime. His heart hammered against my ribs.
I wrapped my arms around him and held him while we both came down. "Fuck," he moaned eventually, voice muffled against my shoulder.
"Yeah."
He lifted his head and looked at me. Mouth swollen, eyes heavy-lidded. Thoroughly wrecked.
And he smiled.
"So," he said. "That thing where I said I wanted you to lose control?"
"Yeah?"
"We're definitely doing that again."
I laughed momentarily and pulled him into a kiss. Slower and softer. I tasted myself on his tongue.
"Yeah," I said against his mouth. "We are."
He settled against me, head on my chest, one leg tangled with mine. His breathing evened out eventually. Sleep pulled him under.
I stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, fingers combing slowly through his hair. I'd just broken every rule I set for myself.
The terrifying part wasn't regret. It was the desire to stay exactly where I was.
***
ROMAN
I woke to gray morning light bleeding through the gaps in the hotel curtains.
For a second, I didn't remember where I was. Then I felt the weight of an arm across my ribs, the warmth of another body pressed against my back, and it all came rushing back.
Grady Volkov.
The bar and the elevator. How he'd looked at me when I told him to stop being so careful.
The way he'd come apart.
I turned my head carefully. Didn't want to wake him.
He was sound asleep. Face pressed into the pillow, one arm at his side, and the other draped across me. His breathing was slow and even. Peaceful.
He looked younger in sleep.
He'd shed the captain's armor. No jaw tension. Simply a guy sleeping off sex that rewired your nervous system.
In the morning light, I saw details I'd missed last night. He had a scar through his left eyebrow, probably from a high stick. Dark hair spread lightly across his chest and in a trail down his stomach.
There were marks on his skin from my teeth and my fingers. Evidence.
I'd gotten Grady Volkov into bed and made him lose control.
It was too easy. We fit together too well. He'd listened when I told him what I wanted, and he held me after, like he didn't want to let go. As his arm rested across me, his fingers splayed possessively over my ribs even in sleep.
He'd seen the real me, beyond the flashy rookie to what lay underneath. That scared me because once he'd seen it, he'd eventually see through everything.
Half of my cockiness was performance. I was twenty-four years old and still figuring out who the hell I was supposed to be.
If I stayed here in bed, he'd figure it out. And then what?
He'd realize last night was a mistake. He'd know I was too young and too reckless for a team captain who'd probably never had a messy day in his life.
He'd wake up and be polite about it, then never look at me the same way again. I couldn't stay to watch that happen. It would be better to leave first.
I slipped out from under his arm. He stirred but didn't wake. I found my clothes scattered across the floor: shirt by the bathroom and pants near the bed. I couldn't find one sock and decided to abandon it.
Before I left, I reached for the hotel notepad on the nightstand. I had to leave something. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held the pen against the paper.
What the hell was I supposed to write?
Last night was incredible? No, too honest.
Thanks for having me? That sounded like a thank-you note after an invitation to dinner.
I needed something casual. Grateful, but not desperate.
I wrote fast, before I could overthink it.
I'm learning from the best.
I stared at the words. They could mean the sex, or it could be about hockey. It was warm enough to avoid sounding cold.
I set the note on the pillow beside him and looked at him one more time.
I saw the bruise on his collarbone I'd left with my teeth. One arm still reached across the bed toward a ghost of me.
Maybe I should stay. Wake him up and tell him last night was good, or even better, it meant something.
It would be a risk.
I'd already learned that the things you wanted most were the things that could hurt you worst. Vulnerability was another word for painting a target on your back.
I'd learned to keep moving. Stay ahead of the damage.
I grabbed my jacket and left before I could change my mind. The hallway was empty. Too early for most people. In the elevator, I hit the button for my floor and sagged against the wall as the doors closed.
I'd done the right thing.
Grady Volkov didn't want a messy rookie complicating his life. He wanted one night. I'd given him an excellent night. Clean exit. No drama.
My exit was smart. Professional.
So, why did my chest feel like I'd just taken a slam into the boards?
***
GRADY
I woke to silence.
I knew before I opened my eyes. He was gone.
I turned my head anyway. Checked the pillow beside me and the chair by the window. Looking for evidence I was wrong.
Empty bed. Empty room. Only me.
I sat up slowly. The sheet tangled around my waist.
I scanned the floor. No clothes but mine and no shoes by the door.
I'd known it was temporary even before it was over. One night. No expectations, but at least we'd used names. I'd held him after, and we'd both said—.
My jaw clenched.
I'd been careful my entire life. Disciplined. I didn't hook up with rookies. They were young, reckless, and didn't understand that some things couldn't be undone.
I couldn't afford to want something I wasn't allowed to keep.
I swung my legs out of bed and sat up. On the nightstand, I spotted a folded piece of paper. It was from the hotel notepad.
I picked it up and unfolded it. Five words in quick, scrawled handwriting.
I'm learning from the best.
I read it twice. It sounded like I was a training exercise. A masterclass. The experienced captain teaching the eager rookie how it's done.
How what's done? He'd learned something, apparently.
Technique, maybe. Or was it how to fuck someone and walk away clean.
I rubbed the scar on my left knuckle with my right thumb. Old habit. Grounding myself when control started slipping.
I set the note back on the nightstand.
I'd known better. I knew from the moment I saw him across that bar that Roman Wilder was dangerous. Too much of everything I'd spent years learning not to want.
I wanted him anyway. And after I had him, he'd left a fucking note.
Most men would have been angry. I wasn't.
I was something worse.
Disappointed. In him for leaving. In myself for thinking last night meant something.
I picked up the note again. Read it one more time, looking for something I'd missed. Some hint of warmth or regret or anything that suggested this had mattered to him the way it had mattered to me.
There was nothing. Only five words saying everything I'd been afraid of hearing.
You were practice. You were instruction. You weren't the grand prize.
I folded the note and put it in my wallet, telling myself I'd throw it away later.
I told myself I'd forget about him. Two years later, his name still stopped my heart.