Chapter Thirty-Three
CHARLOTTE
The porch light’s still on when I pull in behind him.
He’s already out of the truck, waiting by the door—one hand in his pocket, the other running through his hair like he’s trying to play it cool and failing miserably.
I barely make it up the steps before he reaches for me, hands finding my waist and anchoring me closer. Everything in me exhales, and the long, steady control I’ve been holding slips the second he whispers my name.
When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard.
I rest my forehead against his chest. “Hi,” I manage, voice barely there.
He laughs under his breath, low and rough. “Hi.”
It’s all soft gasps and small laughs between us as we move down the hall, bumping shoulders and forgetting how to breathe.
Inside his room, his blue eyes lock onto mine, steady and intense. No hesitation.
Just a raw, unspoken understanding that passes between us.
He carefully presses me against the wall, and I tilt my head back, exposing my neck. He leans in, his breath warm against my skin. His lips trail down, slow and deliberate, leaving a path of fire in their wake.
Each kiss makes my skin tingle and my pulse quicken.
“I want you, Charlie,” he murmurs, his voice rough as his hands slide down to grip my hips. He pulls me tighter against him, and I feel how hard he is. My breath hitches, and I moan softly, my hands tangling in his dark hair.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, and his mouth covers mine again. My body arches into his, desperate for more.
He breaks the kiss, his hands moving to the bottom of my shirt. He pulls back just long enough to lift my shirt over my head, never taking his eyes off mine. He unclasps my bra, and it instantly joins my shirt on the floor.
He wastes no time, his mouth latching onto a nipple. He sucks and teases it, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing just enough to make me squirm against him.
His hands slide down to the waistband of my leggings, pulling them down my legs. I step out of them, left in nothing but my panties. His gaze rakes over me, and I feel both vulnerable and powerful.
He steps back, tugging off his own shirt to reveal his muscular chest. My eyes trace the lines of his body, the way his abs flex as he moves closer again.
He presses me back onto the bed, the cool sheets contrasting with the heat of his body. His hands roam over me, touching every inch of skin.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding my panties down my legs. I kick them off, my breath coming in short gasps as he kneels between my thighs.
“You’re so wet for me,” he growls, his fingers teasing my folds, circling my clit before slipping inside me.
I arch my back, moaning his name as his finger moves inside me, slow and deep, his thumb pressing against my clit.
The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pressure and release, and I feel my walls clench around his fingers.
“Declan, please, I need you,” I moan.
He stands and unbuckles his belt. His pants fall to the floor and my body tingles in anticipation and desire.
He doesn’t hesitate, positioning himself at my entrance before thrusting inside me in one smooth motion. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he fills me completely.
“Tell me to slow down,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Don’t,” I breathe.
His hips snap forward, pounding into me relentlessly. The bed creaks beneath the rhythm of our bodies. Every thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through me, building and building.
I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts, clenching around him as pleasure builds inside me.
“Declan, I’m close,” I pant, my voice shaky.
His forehead drops to mine. “Let me feel it.”
His words push me over the edge. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, tearing a scream from my lips. I tremble, my body convulsing under him. He follows moments later, his thrusts slowing, his breath ragged against my neck.
He collapses on top of me, his weight comforting, his heart pounding against mine. I run my fingers through his hair, my mind still reeling from the intensity.
“That was—” I start, but he cuts me off with a soft kiss.
“Not done yet,” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine.
I smile, my heart racing with anticipation. “Oh?”
“Not even close.”
He rolls off me, his eyes never leaving mine, and I feel the cool air against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat we’ve just generated.
“On your knees for me, Charlie,” he says, his voice low.
My heart skips a beat, but I don’t hesitate. I kneel on the bed, my breath quickening as I watch him move. He stands at the edge of the bed, and I feel a surge of desire at the sight of him.
He moves behind me, his hands gripping my hips, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
“Say the word,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
“Yes,” I whisper, goosebumps spreading along my body.
He moves into me with a deep thrust, and I moan, my head falling back as he fills me completely. His hands grip my hips tightly, his movements steady and unyielding, each one sending shocks of pleasure through me.
I meet his thrusts with my own, my body moving in sync with his. The angle is different, the sensation deeper, and I feel myself building again, the pleasure coiling tight in my core. His hands move to my breasts, squeezing and teasing my nipples, his touch sending sparks through my body.
I cry out his name as my orgasm rips through me, my body shaking. He follows moments later, his grip tightening on my hips as he moves deep one last time.
The last of it shudders through me, and then everything goes quiet in that stunned, weightless way that feels like falling and landing at the same time.
He eases down beside me. The room comes back in pieces: muted light, tangled sheets, the sound of us breathing like we ran a mile.
Once my breathing slows, the room hums with the kind of silence that feels earned.
He’s lying on his side, fingers tracing lazy circles over my shoulder.
The steady rhythm of his breathing anchors me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
When he speaks, it’s quiet, like he’s afraid to break something sacred.
“I love you.”
I blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”
His thumb drags along my collarbone, gentle. “Didn’t mean to say it tonight.”
I swallow hard. “You didn’t?”
He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “No. But I meant it.”
Something in my chest breaks open.
“Good,” I whisper, my voice unsteady but sure. “Because I love you too.”
He exhales, long and quiet, then leans in and kisses me again—softer this time, slower, like he’s sealing something that doesn’t need to be rushed.
For the first time in a long time, everything feels simple.
Right.
The smell of coffee is what wakes me.
For a second, I don’t remember where I am, just that the sheets are warm and my body feels pleasantly heavy. Then I hear movement downstairs, the faint clink of a mug, and everything comes rushing back.
Last night.
The way he said he loves me.
The way I said it back.
My heart does a small, stupid flip.
I pull on his T-shirt from the chair. It’s soft, worn, and smells like him, and pad down the hall.
He’s in the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, leaning against the counter while the coffee maker hums. The morning light catches the faint scar near his temple, the one I’ve always wanted to trace.
He looks up when he hears me. “Hey, Doc.”
His voice is rough, sleep-warm.
“Morning,” I say, taking a sip of coffee from the mug he sets in front of me. It’s way too strong, but I smile anyway. “You always make it this lethal?”
“Only on game travel days.”
He hands me a piece of toast, his knuckles brushing mine. It’s such a small thing, but it feels impossibly intimate, like we’ve slipped into some rhythm that already existed, waiting for us to find it.
“Flight’s not till noon,” he says. “Good thing. It gives my knee a chance to recover.”
I choke on my toast, laughing. “That’s your way of saying you’re sore?”
“From rehab,” he says, all mock innocence. Then, quieter, “Mostly.”
The kitchen goes quiet again, easy and comfortable.
Sophie texts him a photo of her and Maya at breakfast, both grinning with leftover stage makeup still on. He shows me the screen, pride softening his features.
“She looks happy,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “She really does.”
He sets the phone down and looks at me like he’s memorizing this too: the morning light, the quiet, us.
It’s the kind of look that makes me want to freeze time.
After a few moments, I glance at the clock. “I should run home, shower, and grab my luggage.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move right away. His hand slides to my waist like he’s not ready to let go. “Text me when you’re heading out. I’ll see you at the airport.”
“Okay,” I say.
He walks me to the door, one hand at the small of my back. The goodbye kiss lingers, unhurried, full of everything that doesn’t need saying.
When I finally pull away, I grin. “Try not to be late, Captain.”
He smirks. “I’m never late, Doc.”
I laugh, stepping into the morning air, heart too full for words.
The door clicks shut behind me, and it feels like the start of something we’ve both been ready for.
I’m already texting Kristy by the time I reach my car:
I have big news. Like capital-B Big. Let’s catch up when I get back from Vegas.
The three dots appear immediately.
Kristy: Are we talking “buy champagne” or “bring a shovel”?
Me: Champagne.
Kristy: I’m already too excited and too impatient. We’re making plans the second you’re back.
I can’t stop smiling. My fingers hover over the call button, then fall away. Some things deserve to be said face-to-face, and “he told me he loves me” is definitely one of those things.
By the time I arrive at the airport, I’m back in team mode: lanyard on, bag packed, feelings carefully zipped up.
When we land in Vegas, the sun’s sharp and blinding, reflecting off the tarmac. The guys peel off through the private terminal, sunglasses already on, half-joking, half-wired. They’re buzzing with that travel-day mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. The series is tied 1–1, and Game 3’s tomorrow night.
You can sense the urgency under the laughter.
“Look at the captain actually smiling,” Torres says, grinning.
Reed laughs. “Must’ve slept great or something.”
Declan just shakes his head, the hint of a smile still playing at his mouth. “Big game week. Try it sometime.”
The banter continues, and I do my best not to smile.
I shoulder my bag and fall into step with the medical crew. Declan’s a few paces ahead, walking steady despite the brace, no limp now. A small knot of reporters waits behind a rope line outside the private terminal.
“Tremayne! How’s the leg feeling?”
He doesn’t break stride. “One day at a time,” he says, calm, even, practiced.
I catch the faint set of his jaw, the way he hides the stiffness when he pivots to grab his duffel. It takes everything in me not to walk over and help.
When the buses pull up to the hotel, the team’s already in game-day mode: headphones in, conversations low, everyone moving on autopilot.
Inside the lobby, it’s controlled chaos: media staff checking room lists, security guiding fans back from the rope line, and a couple of kids asking for autographs near the fountain.
He disappears into the elevator with the players, and I pretend to check my messages like I’m not still watching him go.
A few hours later, the rink hits me like it always does: sharp and cold at ice level. Optional skate is fast and light. Vic and I post at the boards, tracking mobility and anything that looks off after travel. Declan’s there in sweats, leaning on the glass and watching every rep.
During a reset, guys drift to the bench for water, and Declan catches my eye across the ice. Just a heartbeat of recognition, then I look back down at my tablet, pretending to adjust a note. My pulse betrays me anyway.
As we finish up and head back to the hotel, the sun’s slipping behind the skyline, Vegas glowing neon again. Team dinner runs long, loud with inside jokes and playoff nerves. When I finally get to my room, I’m kicking off my shoes when my phone buzzes.
Declan: Made it through the day without anyone clocking us. You good?
Me: Barely. You?
Declan: Counting down the days.
I stare at the screen for a second, smiling before I can stop it.
Counting down to clearance. To not hiding. To whatever comes next.
Outside, Vegas hums like it never sleeps. Inside, it’s just quiet enough for me to hear my own heart still racing from last night.
Tomorrow’s Game 3. The stakes are high, and the lines between professional and personal have never felt thinner.
And somewhere between the arena lights and the hotel quiet, I realize…
Loving him is easy.
I hope hiding it for another week will be too.