Chapter Thirteen
Owen
Her lips part.
That’s all it takes to completely derail my ability to think like a functioning adult human being.
I’m already too close. I know I am. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her body, close enough that if she shifts forward even half an inch, my mouth is on hers again and I’m done pretending this is still salvageable.
Remy’s back presses against the kitchen island. My hands brace on either side of her hips because if I touch her right now, I’m not convinced I’ll stop.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth.
Fuck.
I drag in a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me.
“You should go,” I say again, quieter this time. Rougher. Like the words are fighting their way out of my throat. “Seriously, Remy.”
“Then stop looking at me that way.”
“I don’t know how.”
The confession hangs there between us, raw and humiliating and true.
I’ve spent the last two days trying to get away from her.
Literally running from her through the arena like a deranged asshole because every time she looks at me, my chest twists up so tight I can barely think straight.
And now she’s here, standing in my kitchen with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and coffee on her breath, looking at me like she’s waiting for something.
Waiting for me.
That’s the part that really gets me.
Nobody waits for me gently.
Nobody gives me space.
My pulse kicks harder when her fingers brush my wrist. The touch is light. Careful. It shouldn’t affect me this much, but my entire body reacts like she put her hand directly around my throat instead.
“Owen,” she says softly, and damn, I could drown in the way she says my name. “Why are you acting like this is a bad thing?”
Because I know myself.
Because I don’t trust what happens when I want something too much.
Because I’ve spent my entire adult life keeping parts of myself locked down tight enough that nobody gets hurt by them.
“You make me crazy,” I admit.
A tiny line forms between her brows. “That sounds miserable.”
I huff out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
She’s still touching my wrist. My stupid brain can’t stop focusing on it. On the warmth of her fingertips against my skin. On how easy it would be to turn my hand and lace our fingers together.
I don’t do it.
Barely.
“What exactly are you afraid is going to happen here?” she asks.
Everything.
I’m afraid of wanting too much. Of pushing too hard. Of turning into every version of myself I’ve spent years trying not to become. But when I look at her, none of those thoughts come out. Instead, my eyes drop to her mouth again.
“I think about you constantly,” I say quietly. “It’s getting hard to act normal around you.”
Her breath catches.
Mine almost does too.
The air in the kitchen feels thick now. Heavy. Every inch between us is charged with something hot and dangerous and completely fucking unavoidable.
She slides her hand from my wrist to the center of my chest. Not pushing me away. My heart slams so hard against my ribs that her eyes widen slightly, like she can actually feel it.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers.
That should embarrass me. Instead, it makes me feel exposed in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been before.
“I want you to like me so bad,” I admit, my voice cracking rough around the edges. “And I don’t even know why it matters this much. It’s like you see me. Not the goalie. Me. And if you see that guy and still don’t want him…” I swallow hard. “Then maybe I’m exactly who I always thought I was.”
Her expression softens so completely it almost knocks the air out of me.
Then she kisses me. Her mouth presses against mine, warm and sweet and deliberate, and my entire body locks up in shock before instinct takes over. I make a rough sound into the kiss and grip the edge of the counter hard enough that the granite digs into my palms.
Fuck.
Fuck.
She tastes like vanilla and espresso and the absolute death of my self-control.
I kiss her back before I can stop myself, deep enough that she gasps softly against my mouth, and that sound goes straight to my cock. Heat punches through me so fast it’s almost dizzying.
I force myself to pull away first.
Her eyes are dark when I look at her. Blown wide. Her lips wet from my mouth.
Just how I imagined her in my fantasies.
I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes for one dangerous second.
“Tell me to stop,” I say hoarsely. “And I will.”
Remy doesn’t tell me to stop.
That’s the first thing that really sinks in.
Not the kiss. Not the way my cock is already painfully hard behind my zipper. Not the fact that I’m standing in my kitchen, one bad decision away from completely detonating my professional relationship with the only woman whose opinion I’ve cared about in years.
It’s the fact that she stays.
Her fingers curl lightly into the front of my shirt, and when I open my eyes again, she’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure me out and getting distracted halfway through.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she says quietly.
A hot and unsteady wave of desire rolls through me, so I kiss her again before I can think too hard about it.
This one is slower. Less desperate. I take my time with it, partly because I’m trying not to scare her and partly because I’m selfish enough to want to feel every second of this. Her mouth is soft against mine, warm and responsive, and every tiny sound she makes goes straight through me.
My hand finally settles on her waist. Even that feels intimate somehow.
Remy inhales sharply when I pull her closer, and my brain immediately short-circuits over the fact that I’m affecting her, too. Not just physically. I can feel the tension in her body, the slight tremor in the hand resting against my chest.
She shifts her weight, rolling her hips forward in a slow, experimental grind against the hard line of my cock. The friction is immediate and brutal through our clothes—my erection trapped against her stomach—and I groan low into her mouth before I can stop myself.
She freezes for half a second when she feels the full, heavy length of me. A small, stunned “Oh,” falls from her lips, quiet and involuntary. Then she does it again, deliberately dragging herself along the rigid outline of my cock like she can’t help testing it.
“You’re nervous,” I say against her mouth.
“So are you.”
Fair.
I huff out a laugh that dies quickly when she brushes her lips along my jaw. My head tips back before I can stop it. The movement exposes my throat, and I feel her hesitate for half a second, like she’s surprised by the reaction she got out of me.
“Remy,” I warn softly.
Not because I want her to stop.
Because I don’t.
Her palms slide up my chest slowly, almost cautiously, and I swear to God I’ve never been touched this way before.
Women have grabbed at me before. Pulled me into bathrooms and bedrooms and backseats because I’m six foot four and play professional hockey, and apparently that does something for people.
This doesn’t feel like that.
This feels like she’s learning me.
The realization nearly buckles my knees.
I kiss her harder to cover the fact that I’m emotionally spiraling in real time. She makes a startled little noise into my mouth.
“Fuck,” I say.
My forehead drops briefly to her shoulder while I try to regain some kind of control. Her fingers slide into my hair at the nape of my neck, scratching lightly, and my entire body tightens.
I make another rough sound before I can stop myself.
“Wow,” she whispers, sounding a little stunned. “Okay.”
Heat floods my face instantly. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I wasn’t.” Her voice softens. “I just didn’t expect you to react that way.”
Neither did I.
I lift my head enough to look at her, and she’s flushed now. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen from kissing me. The sight hits me low in the gut so hard I have to grip her hip to steady myself.
“You’re really pretty,” I say, because apparently all higher thought has abandoned me completely.
She blinks. “That’s your line?”
“I had better ones earlier. This one’s honest.”
That gets a laugh out of her, soft and breathless, and the sound fucks me up. I think I’d do almost anything to hear it again.
My eyes drift downward.
To her throat.
Her chest.
The curve of her waist under my hand.
Then lower.
Fuck.
I force myself to look at her face.
“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” I say quietly.
Her expression shifts immediately. Softer. Warmer. Like that sentence meant something to her.
“You’re not,” she whispers.
I nod once, even though my pulse is hammering hard enough to make my hands tremble again.
Then I sink slowly to my knees in front of her.
The look on Remy’s face almost undoes me completely.
It’s softer than surprise, making my chest feel too tight for my ribs.
“Owen,” she says quietly.
I slide my hands up the backs of her thighs, slow enough that she can stop me at any point.
I think that’s part of why I’m shaking so hard.
Not because I don’t know what I’m doing, but because I do, and for some reason, this feels less like hooking up and more like standing on the edge of something that could actually matter.
That thought should scare me more than it does.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
Remy nods immediately, but I watch her face for another second anyway. I’d stop the second she looked uncertain. Hell, I’d probably stop if she frowned too hard.
That realization hits me somewhere deep and embarrassing.
Her fingers drift into my hair again while I press slow kisses along the inside of her thigh. The muscles under my hands twitch every time my mouth touches her skin, and I swear to God I could stay here for hours just learning how she reacts to things.
She smells good.
Not perfume-good. Not fake.
Warm skin and coffee and woman.
My mouth waters so hard it’s almost humiliating.
“Damn,” I say against her thigh before I can stop myself.
Remy lets out a shaky laugh. “That doesn’t exactly sound controlled.”
“I’m trying my best here.”
“You’re doing great.”