Chapter 12 #2
The tightness in my throat makes it hard to breathe. Nobody's ever said it like that before. Like there's a distinction between honoring his memory and being haunted by it.
"I'm terrified," I admit. "That I'll get the NHL contract and it won't be enough. That I'll stay in Ashwood Falls and regret it forever. That no matter what I choose, I'll disappoint everyone—Dad's memory, Mom's hopes, Chief's faith in me, the team's trust."
"Ryder." She frames my face with both hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You're not responsible for everyone else's expectations. You're only responsible for your own life."
"Easy to say."
"Impossible to do, I know." Her smile turns sad. "But we're both doing it anyway. Me, hiding in Alaska and pretending I'm not terrified of going back to real life. You, fighting fires and chasing hockey and acting like you don't deserve both."
We're close now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, count the freckles across her nose, watch her pupils dilate.
"We should wait," I murmur, even as my hand comes up to cup her cheek. "Three games. We agreed."
"We did." She leans into my touch, eyes drifting closed. "We agreed to a lot of things."
"Fake dating. Clear boundaries. Mutually beneficial arrangement."
"All very professional." Her lips curve. "Very strategic."
"This doesn't feel strategic." My thumb traces her bottom lip, and she makes a sound low in her throat that goes straight through me.
"No. It doesn't."
When she kisses me, it's different from the almost-kisses we've had before. No audience. No cameras. No moose interrupting. Just Piper and me and everything we admitted tonight pressing us together.
She tastes like coffee and certainty, and the kiss is slow and deep and honest. Her hands slide into my hair, tugging slightly, and I groan against her mouth.
"Ryder," she breathes when we break apart. "We should—"
"I know. Three more games."
"Right. Three games." Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I have to close my eyes against how good it feels. "Except..."
"Except?"
"Except I don't want to wait." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "I don't want to be strategic or professional or careful. I just want you."
The honesty in her voice makes my pulse hammer in my throat.
"Are you sure?" Because I need her to be sure, need this to be real and not just aftermath from the fire call or the vulnerable conversation. "Piper, if we do this—"
"I'm sure." Her eyes are clear, certain. "Are you?"
Instead of answering, I kiss her again. Slower this time, tasting every inch of her mouth, memorizing the way she sighs against me.
I pull her into my lap, need her closer, and she comes willingly, straddling me.
Her hands slip under my shirt, cool against my overheated skin, and I hiss at the contact.
"Too much?" she asks.
"Not enough."
My hands find her hips, thumbs slipping under the waistband of her pajama pants to trace the skin beneath. She rocks against me, and the friction makes us both groan.
"Bedroom," I manage.
"Yes."
She stands, takes my hand, leads me down the short hallway to her room. It's as organized as the rest of her life—clothes folded precisely, suitcases lined up by color, a tidy stack of books on the nightstand. The only chaos is the unmade bed, blankets tangled from sleep.
When she pauses at the edge of the bed, I think maybe she's changed her mind. But then she turns to face me, and her hands go to the hem of her sweatshirt.
"Still sure?" she asks.
"Beyond sure."
She pulls the sweatshirt off in one motion. She's not wearing anything underneath, and the sight of her steals my breath. Pale skin, the soft curve of her breasts, a small scar just below her left collarbone that I want to trace with my tongue.
"You're staring," she says, but she's smiling.
"You're beautiful."
I close the distance between us, hands gentle on her skin. She shivers when I trace her collarbone, her shoulder, the slope of her breast. Goosebumps race across her skin, and I lean down to press kisses along her neck, her shoulder, the sensitive spot just below her ear that makes her gasp.
Her hands work my shirt off with less grace and more urgency, and then we're skin to skin, heat building between us.
She fumbles with my belt, and I have to help her because my fingers work better than hers right now.
My jeans get stuck on my boots, and we both laugh—breathless and a little desperate.
"Smooth," she says, grinning.
"I'm out of practice."
"How long?"
"Long enough that this might be embarrassingly quick."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She pulls me down onto the bed, and the feel of her beneath me—warm and soft and real—is better than any fantasy I've had.
I take my time. Kiss every inch of skin I can reach. Learn what makes her arch and gasp, what touches make her dig her nails into my shoulders. She's responsive and honest, telling me what she likes, showing me with her body when words fail.
When I slide two fingers inside her, she's already wet, and the sound she makes goes straight to my cock. I work her slowly, watching her face as pleasure builds. Her hips rock against my hand, chasing friction, and when she comes it's with my name on her lips and her hand fisted in my hair.
"Ryder," she breathes, pulling me up for a kiss. "I need—I need you."
"Condom?"
"Nightstand. Second drawer."
I find one, tear it open with shaking hands. She watches me roll it on, eyes dark with want, and when I settle between her thighs she wraps her legs around my hips.
"Please," she says.
I push inside slowly, giving her time to adjust. She's tight and hot and perfect, and I have to pause because if I move I'm going to lose it right now.
"Okay?" I grit out.
"Move." She rocks her hips, and the motion makes us both groan. "Ryder, please—"
We find a rhythm together. Slow at first, then faster as need takes over. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her legs tightening around me to pull me deeper. I can feel her getting close again, can see it in the flush spreading across her chest, the way her breathing goes ragged.
"Come for me," I murmur against her ear. "Let me feel it."
She does. Clenches around me so hard I see stars, her whole body going taut before she melts beneath me. The way she clenches around me, the trust in how she whispers my name—it sends me over the edge right after her.
We collapse together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. I should move, should deal with the condom and give her space, but she tightens her arms around me.
"Stay," she says. "Just for a minute."
So I do. We lie there, hearts gradually slowing, the pre-dawn darkness pressing against the windows. Eventually I do move, dispose of the condom, find my boxer briefs in the chaos of her previously organized room.
She watches from the bed, sheet pulled up to her shoulders, hair a wild mess I'm responsible for. Thoroughly satisfied and absolutely wrecked—and I did that. Made her look like this.
"Ryder?" She catches my hand as I'm pulling on my jeans. "I don't regret it."
"Me neither."
"But we still have to figure things out."
"After three more games," I agree, even though we both know we just complicated everything. "We'll figure it out then."
She nods, lets my hand go, and I force myself to walk out the door.
The sky is starting to lighten as I cross to my own cabin. Not quite dawn, but getting there. The stars are fading, and somewhere a raven calls. My phone shows fifteen missed texts from the team group chat, two from Preston, and one from Chief that just says: Get some sleep before practice.
I don't sleep. Just stand in the shower until the water runs cold, trying to reconcile the man who pulled a victim from a burning building with the man who just made love to the woman who's supposed to be his fake girlfriend.
Two more games to prove I belong in the NHL.
And I just fell in love with Piper Meadows.