Chapter 10 #2
Her hands find my shoulders again, nails digging in as I finally slide inside her, no teasing now, just a hard, desperate thrust that has her head falling back against the table. The sound she makes is guttural, broken, and it nearly undoes me right there.
I move with her, against her, the edge of the table biting into my thighs as her legs lock around me, pulling me deeper, closer.
Her fingers are in my hair again, tugging, her lips finding mine between ragged breaths.
Every movement is frantic, urgent, the kind of raw need that burns through thought and leaves only instinct behind.
“Harder,” she breathes against my ear, and I listen. I grip her hips, pulling her into every thrust until the table shudders under the force. Papers flutter to the floor, a pen rolls off the edge, and still we move, caught in that perfect, reckless rhythm.
Her pussy tightens around my dick, her breath catching, and I feel her go just before she does, clenching, trembling, a soft cry breaking free as she comes undone beneath me.
I follow her, one more thrust, two, the world narrowing to the heat and the pressure and the sound of her falling apart in my hands.
Silence rushes in after, broken only by the sound of our breathing as it comes out harsh and uneven, the kind that doesn’t belong in a conference room, but here we are. I pull back slowly, both of us slick and trembling, and rest my forehead against hers for a moment. Just a moment.
Then reality slams back like a cup of ice water on hot coal.
She straightens first, pulling her blouse closed, fingers fumbling over the missing buttons. I reach for my shirt, not looking at her. Neither of us says anything for a long stretch of seconds, the weight of what we’ve just done pressing heavier than the table between us.
“This doesn’t change anything about my story,” she says finally, her voice steadier than I expected.
I let out a short, humorless laugh as I button my jeans. “Wouldn’t expect it to. You got what you wanted.”
She freezes at that, her eyes cutting to mine, sharp, piercing and defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was just stress relief.”
But we both know she’s lying. Hell, I’m lying too. The story’s not just hers anymore. The dynamic between us has shifted, permanently. There’s no pretending this was a mistake we can walk back from.
There’s no going back.
11
The morning sunlight peeks in through the sheer curtains, a thin golden line that lands right across my laptop screen.
The cursor blinks on the empty document like it’s mocking me, daring me to put something, anything down.
Marcus wants insight, drama, an angle no one else can get.
Yet all I can think about is the feel of his hands on my skin.
I press my palms against my temples, as if that can push the memory back where it belongs. But it doesn’t work. Every inch of me still remembers every feel of him.
The rough drag of his fingers tracing the line of my waist. The heat of his mouth when he kissed me like he’d been starving for so long. The way my body had answered him, instantly, shamelessly, without any control.
I should feel triumphant, because I got close to the getting his story. Too close. Instead, my chest feels tight, my heartbeat a little too fast for someone sitting still.
The laptop stays open, but the words won’t come.
My fingers hover over the keys, then curl into fists.
I shouldn’t have let it happen. I shouldn’t have wanted it in the first place.
I’m here to report, to peel back the layers of a man the media swears they already know.
I’m not here to become one of his layers.
The worst part? It wasn’t just physical. It was how he looked at me, like he already knew I’d come undone for him, and he wanted to watch every second of it happen. Like he enjoyed watching every moment of it.
I shove the chair back and stand, the sudden movement rattling the empty coffee cup on the table.
My body aches faintly in the places where his grip had been the most possessive.
My hip, my wrist, the soft skin just below my collarbone.
It’s maddening, how easily a memory can make my whole body heat up like this.
The bathroom is still fogged from the shower I ran half an hour ago and didn’t use. I strip off my T-shirt and underwear and step in this time, letting the hot water hit my shoulders, run down my spine. It doesn’t rinse away anything. If anything, it makes it worse.
Steam fills the small space, and suddenly I’m back there in the conference room.
His mouth at my neck, his voice low against my ear.
My hands brace against the cool tile, and my eyes squeeze shut.
I tell myself it’s just an echo. Just a chemical reaction, and my hormones tangled with adrenaline and the rush of doing something I absolutely shouldn’t have done.
But my skin tingles like it’s waiting for him again.
I turn the water hotter, almost too hot, until the sting distracts me enough to breathe normally. This is what happens when you cross the line, you start wanting more.
By the time I wrap a towel around myself and walk back into the room, the sunlight has shifted, but the document is still blank. I sit, hair dripping against the fabric of the chair, and type a single line. The hardest part of telling a story is deciding which truths to keep to yourself.
Then I delete it. Because it’s too close to the truth, but not the one I’m meant to share.
The hotel restaurant is filled with low chatting and the faint clattering of silverware. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching on polished coffee pots and the backs of chairs pushed too close together.
I sit at a corner table, half-hidden behind the flimsy shield of my laptop, though I haven’t typed a word. My fork hovers over scrambled eggs that have long since gone cold. Across the room, the team is scattered, some in sweats, with some still looking half-asleep. And then there’s him.
Kai Morrison.
He’s at a table with Jake Rivera, and two other teammates, head bent over a mug, that same infuriating profile cutting against the morning light. Broad shoulders, relaxed posture, like yesterday never happened. Like I didn’t come apart under his hands in a locked conference room.
My pulse betrays me, jumping the moment his gaze lifts and goes straight to mine. It’s brief, just a second, but it lands like a punch to the ribs, heavy, hot, and impossible to shake off.
My phone vibrates against the table, and I sigh at the welcome distraction. Gemma. Perfect timing or divine sabotage, I’m not sure which. I swipe to answer and lift it to my ear. “Morning,” I murmur, trying to sound like I haven’t been staring holes into a hockey star player’s skull.
“Morning? Try noon where I am,” Gemma says, voice thick with mischief and sleep. “Rough night?”
I freeze, my fork suspended midair. “Define rough.”
“Oh, don’t give me that reporter voice,” she drawls. “Your texts went from ‘heading to a late meeting’ to radio silence, so spill. Did you finally get him to open up? Or did he just…” she pauses for dramatic effect, “open you up instead?”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Gemma!”
“What?” she says, her voice filled with mock innocence. “You’ve been circling this guy for weeks. I figured something had to give in.”
I glance toward Kai again and he’s talking to his teammate now, but his eyes flick my way like they’re on a string. Heat climbs my neck, betraying me. “It’s complicated,” I whisper.
“Complicated as in bad complicated or the kind that makes your legs sore the next morning?” she teases.
“Gemma,” I hiss, trying not to laugh, or scream. “I’m at breakfast.”
“With him?”
“No. Well… yes. Kind of. He’s across the room.” I rub my forehead, trying to sound more in control than I feel. “Listen, nothing you’re imagining is official. It’s all blurred lines and messy. And I have work to do.”
She hums knowingly. “Mhm. So, blurred lines with a six-foot-four, headline making hockey player who probably looks like sin in a hoodie. Tell me more about how you’re keeping it strictly professional.”
I push my eggs away and reach for my notebook instead. “Gemma, I can’t. This story, it’s already on thin ice. If anyone even suspects I’m…”
“A human with natural feelings?” she cuts in. “Rochelle, you sound like a woman trying to convince herself she’s fine when she’s absolutely not. Just… be careful. And maybe have an actual breakfast. You sound tense.”
I glance back up just in time to see Kai stand, stretch, and head for the exit. He doesn’t look back this time, but I feel the echo of his gaze all the same.
“I’ll call you later,” I say quickly.
“Uh-huh,” Gemma replies. “And maybe next time, give me more details.”
I hang up before she can press further, shoving my phone into my bag like it might bite me. Across the restaurant, the chair Kai vacated still sits slightly pushed out. Empty, but heavy with everything I’m trying not to think about.
The chill of the rink hits me the second I step out onto the concrete walkway, my notebook in hand, breath fogging faintly in the air.
The team is already in motion, skates carving sharp turns, pucks ricocheting off boards, the low thud of bodies colliding during drills.
The soundscape is familiar by now, but my chest tightens all the same.
Because he’s here, as expected. Kai Morrison, the man I swore this morning I would keep at a safe, professional distance, is skating at the far end of the ice with that same effortless, lethal focus that makes the headlines.
I tell myself I’m here to work, but my eyes betray me, as it continues to peek at the cut of his stride, the way his shoulders move beneath his dark practice jersey.
“Rochelle,” a voice calls.
I blink, drag my gaze away. Alex Petrov, one of the team’s defensemen, leans on his stick near the boards, helmet already unbuckled.
I force a smile, flip my notebook open. “Alex. Got a minute?”