Chapter 19
Heated Countertop
JONAH
The house still hums from last night’s dinner—air thick with the scent of popcorn we popped to go along with last night’s movie.
I’ve just finished unloading two weeks’ worth of groceries onto the island: eggs, cheese, protein bars, the fruit and yogurt Zoe insists Eli needs every morning or he’ll flunk out of fourth grade.
There are six gallons of milk because apparently the only way to get taller is to chug dairy.
I check the clock. Zoe has officially dropped Eli off at school, and I have a solid six hours before he’ll be home pushing me to train harder and asking me questions I don’t have answers to.
Then the front door creaks open, and in walks the biggest threat to my sanity.
Zoe moves through the entryway, laptop bag slung over her shoulder, keys stuffed in her mouth because her hands are full of Eli’s notebooks and a box for his shadowbox project.
Her jeans are ripped at the thigh, cuffed at the ankle, and detonating every last shred of my self-control.
The sweater is loose, slouchy, pale blue, one side hanging off her shoulder and exposing a constellation of freckles that are going to be the end of me.
She clocks the groceries all over the island, grins, and hip-checks the door closed behind her. “Wow, you took what I suggested to heart,” she says around the keys, voice bright. “Was there anything left at the Porky Forky?”
“You said stock up.”
She drops her stuff, slides her bag onto a bar stool, and swings into the kitchen like she owns the place.
She sidles up next to me, close enough that I can smell her hair, and helps herself to the grocery pile. She plucks out a block of sharp cheddar and holds it up, eyebrow raised. “Top shelf?”
“Yeah. Behind the protein shakes.”
She stretches up, sweater sliding off her shoulder even more, and tosses the cheese in the fridge with a flick before moving on to the avocados. “Why are you buying the rock-hard ones? You gotta test them. Like this.” She cradles it in her palm and squeezes.
My brain short-circuits.
I snag the cherry tomatoes and hand them to her. Our hands brush, and I’m suddenly aware of how empty the house is.
She doesn’t say anything, just lines the veggies up and works through the produce. I focus on the yogurt, stacking the containers in the fridge, but Zoe’s right there next to me, bumping shoulders, her hair brushing against my arm every time she twists to reach for something.
It’s fucking domestic. It’s intimate. I’ve had one-night stands with less sexual tension than this.
We’re nearly done when she goes for the cereal, reaching high for the top shelf. The move hikes her sweater so it exposes a narrow, pale strip of skin above her jeans—the small of her back, smooth and inviting, scattered with freckles.
I stare for a full three seconds. Maybe four. No hiding it, no apology. I want to sink my teeth into that skin and see if she makes the same sounds she does when she laughs. I want to find out if she’ll arch into my mouth.
She catches me. Of course she does. That’s her superpower.
Cereal box in hand, she has a grin on her lips. “You having a medical episode?”
“Enjoying the view.” No point in lying.
She hops down from her tiptoes and leans on the counter. “Do you need a minute alone?”
I throw the last pack of yogurt at her, which she catches, one-handed. Then she stands there, pinning me with that look of hers—brave, curious, open.
“So you’re feeling like you’re letting yourself and your teammates down.” The words come out soft, but they hit hard. “I’m sorry.”
My chest cracks. Maybe it’s her tone, maybe it’s the fact that nobody’s ever bothered to actually care about the mental toll the pressure takes. My defenses go down before I can stop them. “Thank you.”
She smiles.
I say, “The trade. From the Blizzards. It was a shit decision for the Trout.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a defenseman.”
“Yeah, I get that.” She nods. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re becoming one.”
“The Blizzards didn’t want me, Zoe.” The words just come out. “I was on the losing end of my own ultimatum, and the Trout gave me another chance. I’m grateful, but I’m scared.”
Zoe doesn’t cut in. Doesn’t offer a silver lining or a pep talk. She just watches me, eyes warm and steady.
I don’t stop. “I don’t even remember what I liked about the game anymore. I used to—” I cut myself off, jaw clenched. “I want to be a role model to my son, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”
There it is. The big, ugly truth out in the open.
She comes closer. Her hand covers mine on the counter, fingers cool against my skin.
Her thumb traces a line over my knuckles, feather-light, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch.
I don’t. I just watch her, every muscle in my chest burning, waiting for her to pull away or tell me to get a grip.
But she doesn’t. She just searches my face for something neither of us have found a name for.
She whispers, “Sometimes I think life’s just one big detour.”
My lips tick up. “That’s definitely true. And I’m always grateful for where I end up.”
“Me too. In fact, the detours might be the best part.”
I know she’s referring to being here, with me, and I’m out of words.
So is she, and the distance between us has somehow shrunk to a single, electric inch.
As usual with her, I’m fucking terrified to make a move. Hair-trigger tension hangs in the air, like the second before a fight, except it’s not violence I want to unleash.
I lean in—so close I can see a gold fleck in her left iris, so close her breath ghosts over my lips.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. But her hand tightens over mine, and her lips part just enough to make me lose whatever’s left of my composure.
I hover, every muscle in my body wound to the point of snapping. I need her to cave first, close that last inch.
It turns into a standoff.
I could wait here forever, but I don’t have to, because she finally closes the gap. Her mouth crashes into mine all at once—no hesitation, no slow build, just pure, starving need.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.
Her fingers are in my hair, yanking me closer. My hands brace her hips, and I pull her flush against me, lifting her off her feet so her toes leave the floor. She doesn’t even pretend to play it cool—she’s all in, biting at my lower lip, fighting to win.
My pulse is a drum in my ears. Her sweater bunches in my fists. The floral scent of her skin mixes with the burn of want. It’s chaos, it’s combustion, and I never want it to stop.
We break apart only because we have to breathe. She’s panting, red-mouthed. She runs her hands down my chest, curling the hem of my shirt in her fingers, and looks up at me like she’s daring me to stop this, to walk away.
This time? Not a fucking chance.
No more talking. No more thinking. Fuck the rules. I lean in and kiss her again. Fast, fierce, no patience for anything gentle.
She kisses back—mouth hot, open, hungry. I groan against her lips, heat flooding through me, and slip my hand under her sweater, palm sliding up her bare spine.
Every inch of her is electric. Her skin is fever-warm, and those freckles? I plan to count each of them with my tongue.
Her teeth nips at my lower lip. The counter digs into my thigh. I fucking love it.
I wrench her sweater up and over her head. She shakes out of it, hair flying, cheeks flushed, the strap of her bra slipping down her arm. It’s blue, lacy, and her breasts—Jesus.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, dragging my mouth along her collarbone, nibbling, then moving lower, kissing the curve of her breast until I can tug the cup aside and take her nipple into my mouth.
She arches into me, breathing sharp, and grabs the back of my head, holding me there. I swirl my tongue over the tip, then suck—slow, steady, building the tension until she moans and clutches my shoulders, legs wrapping around my hips.
Her bra is off, and I work her other breast with my hand, pinching and rolling the nipple between my fingers, just to see if she’ll cry out. She does. Jesus, does she ever.
Her breath comes out in ragged bursts, her hips grinding into mine, voice gone thin and desperate. “Jonah, just—”
I don’t wait. I slide off her jeans and panties and lift her on the countertop, and she wraps her legs around me, leaving her wide open for me as I slide my fingers down her stomach, then inside her.
She’s already wet—slick, hot, pulsing with want.
I stroke her clit, slow, keeping my mouth on her breast, sucking and licking while my fingers work her open.
She shudders, hips bucking. “God, right there, don’t stop—”
I add a second finger inside her, curling and stroking, my thumb circling her clit until she’s shaking all over, sweating, gasping out curses and my name in turns. I keep the rhythm steady, relentless. She’s gripping the edge of the counter so tight I’m amazed it doesn’t snap off.
She comes with a sharp, ragged cry, thighs clamped around my wrist, body arching high. I don’t let up, working her through it until she sags, boneless, panting.
If she killed me, I’d say thank you.
I give her a heartbeat, maybe two, before I step back to get the condom from my wallet. I strip off my shirt and jeans in record time. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the full view—no shame, no hesitation—and the way she bites her lip nearly undoes me.
I roll on the condom, step back between her knees, hook her feet over my shoulders, and line up.
I push in, slow, inch by inch. “God, you feel so damn amazing,” I say, a groan slipping out of me.
Her mouth falls open—pure shock, the best kind. When I bottom out, her head tips back, hair spilling down her back, and her arms cling around my neck like she’s never letting go.
I hold myself there, pressed deep inside her, both of us panting. It’s so fucking intense.
I want to remember every second.