Chapter 7 #2
“No. I—” I pull at my fingers, then blow out a defeated breath.
“I wanted to see you and make sure you’re okay.
” I scan him for any other bruises or cuts besides the obvious eyebrow one.
I was never this anxious with Dillon. Hockey is a tough sport, and these things happen, but with Cole it feels…
I can’t really explain what it feels like without sounding overly dramatic, but since I am, well…
him getting hurt feels like the end of my world.
His eyes flicker to my fist clenched at my side. “Were you worried about me, baby?”
I chew my bottom lip, finally relenting and reach for the bandage covering his stitches. “I—no.”
“Mmhmm.” He knows I’m full of shit. “It’s okay if you care about me—your boyfriend, you know. I won’t use it against you.” He leans down with a mischievous grin. “Much, anyway.”
“I just don’t want to have to take care of you for a whole week. I’ve seen Caden when he’s hurt or sick. I bet you’re a baby too. Are you sure you’re okay?”
He grabs my hand that’s gently brushing his bandage and rubs circles into the palm of it. “I’ve taken tougher blows from you, don’t worry.”
His lips are less than an inch from mine. My chest slides against his. My hand falls to his hair, tangling in it. Concern melts to something deeper. Relief that he’s okay becomes charged with needing something more.
Or maybe it’s the thousands of hormones that are suddenly in the air around us, I don’t know, because I don’t think. I just act. I push up on my toes and press my lips to his, stealing his sharp intake for my own.
I should pull away. Apologize for attacking his face. I even try to pull back a fraction, but as I retreat, Cole follows, cupping my jaw and holding me like I’m his life force. A thud echoes in my ears—the sound of Cole’s gym bag dropping on the cement floor.
His free hand finds its way to the small of my back, steadying me.
If someone had told me that kissing Cole Sinclair, Prince of Blood, felt like an all-consuming fire, I’d have thought they meant the hellish flames that forged him.
But I would have been dead wrong.
Kissing Cole is more like…
A crackling fire in a cozy hearth.
Blazing.
Incinerating.
But somehow comfortingly intimate.
Despite the frigid air this close to the rink, my body melts against him like it’s returning home from a long journey in the cold. The warmth of the fire licks my deadened limbs alive.
A little moan escapes my lips, and somewhere the self-respecting part of me groans, knowing I’ll never be able to live that sound down. He has to know how much this kiss is knocking me off my axis.
I should stop. There’s no way being devoured into submission doesn’t lead to me getting third-degree burns, but I can’t. I don’t want to.
Cole’s grip on my waist. The fervor of his lips. He’s acted like a man possessed, kissing me like he plays—aggressive and confident, no hesitation, no fear.
I thought kissing him would be a punishment, but this feels like being worshipped.
And it’s intoxicating.
Cole slides his hand up my back. His fingers curl around the nape of my neck, threading through my hair.
His mouth moves over mine with a possessiveness I can’t explain—as if he’s been waiting to claim me for years, like he knows exactly how much pressure to use, how long to pause, when to deepen to get me completely under his spell.
Footsteps and chatter blur away around us. I fade from reality, focusing on Cole’s lips on mine.
This isn’t a performance. Not for me, anyway.
With an aggressive tug on my lips, he draws air from my lungs.
Heat. Ignition. Fire.
Cole savors every part of my mouth with a frenzied, blazing exploration causing my legs to go nearly limp. I lean into him for stability and his hand tightens around me.
“About damn time, Sinclair. Get it!” One of his teammates shouts from what feels like two inches away. It’s all it takes for the bubble to burst. I blink back to reality and take a shaky step back.
“Fucking hell,” Cole whispers, shooting daggers at whoever just walked by.
My stomach sours at an all too familiar sight in my dating life—the PDA scowl. To this day, I haven’t been able to decipher if Dillon hated kissing me in public because he was embarrassed to be seen with me, or if he was worried one of the other women he was seeing might see us.
Considering how many times I’ve heard my classmates talk about their one night with Sinclair in passing, Cole’s reputation in that department is already cemented, so I doubt he cares about being seen kissing someone in public. It probably has something to do with who he’s kissing.
And then it hits me.
I didn’t even ask him if I could kiss him, I just attacked his face. And yeah, he freaking kissed me but maybe I should—“I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” His laugh comes out strangled and cracked.
“I didn’t—we hadn’t discussed if I could kiss you yet, and then I just attacked you.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “If you hadn’t noticed, Natalie. I kissed you back.”
“Yeah but, I don’t know, maybe you felt compelled or something. Or maybe it was a reflex.” I hiccup.
“You think I kiss like that as a reflex?” he asks with a laugh. “That’s giving me a little too much credit.” He cups my cheek and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “What if I told you I always feel compelled to kiss these? You just finally gave me a green light.”
“I’d say you’re a dirty liar.”
“You’ve called me worse.” He shrugs with a step forward.
His forefinger and thumb grip my chin. “It’s never stopped how badly I want these before.
” He raises his eyebrow asking permission, and I understand nothing that’s going on or how anything Cole is saying could be more than a fever dream, but I’m fairly certain I’m awake.
All I know is my lips are parting on command and my head is nodding with an undignified desperation because I need Cole’s lips on mine again.
“Natalie, we’re going back to your apartment. Do you have everything you need to sleep at Cole’s?” My mom’s voice asks over the loud hum of the Zamboni, breaking whatever spell I was under.
My eyes widen in horror. I turn. “Cole’s apartment?” I croak.
“Honey, we just saw the way you two kiss; there’s no use pretending that you don’t stay over each other’s apartment.
And you know I wouldn’t wish your father’s snoring on anyone.
I need to shut my eyes ASAP, so I’ll leave your overnight bag outside your door just in case, but I’m sure you have a stash of everything at his place by now, right? ”
“I—”
“She has all the things!” Tessa yells. “She can totally stay with Cole.”
I glare at my soon-to-be-ex roommate.
“You’re welcome.” She mouths.
I flip her off, shielding my hand from my mom with my body.
“Great! Have fun celebrating you two!” My mom waves goodbye.
“Good game, son!” My dad lifts his hand in recognition to Cole who’s slid both hands around my hips.
“Thanks, sir,” Cole says, nodding in his direction before I feel his eyes on me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I can sleep in their car or something. It’s totally fine. You’ve had more than enough of me tonight.”
“I’m not letting you sleep in a car, D’Amore,” he laughs at me, again. Apparently I’m hysterical, maybe I should consider doing stand-up. “It’s fine. You can take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Internally, I cringe remembering how dirty Cole’s side of the room always was when Caden and him shared a dorm.
True, I haven’t been in his room, but I bet it’s still a mess.
I also don’t want to offend him while he is flirting with me and being sweet.
“I can sleep in Caden’s bed since he’s back home. ”
Cole grimaces. “I would not trust those sheets,” he says.
“No offense, but I remember your side of the room when we first met. I can’t imagine it’s much cleaner now.”
Cole quirks his head to the side, then a slow wicked smile takes residence on his face. “Come home with me, Natalie. I want to show you something.”
“Well, that’s awfully ominous,” I say. “But it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.” With a shrug, I turn toward the exit.
Cole bends to pick up his duffel bag.
When he’s not looking, I run a finger over my lips where a soft buzz of electricity still hums.
He slides his arm around my waist. “Act like I’ve kissed you senseless before,” he says, with the same arrogant look he wore on the ice.
I elbow him in the ribs. He winces in pain and grabs them.
“Sorry!” I squeak. “I didn’t know those were sore.”
“They’re fine.” He shakes his head. “I just wanted confirmation of your concern. It’s kind of nice, D’Amore. We should do this dating thing more often.”
“I don’t think my heart could take it,” I say. Too much guilt. Too much lying. I honestly don’t know if I’ll make it through this week.
“I’d take care of it,” he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze and causing my fragile organ to go into hyperdrive.
What the hell is this man doing to me?
And maybe more importantly, why?