Chapter 15 #2
He huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “It’s not.”
We stand there, on the threshold between ice and concrete, like neither of us is totally sure where to go next.
This is stupid, the sensible part of my brain says. Go back to your room. Pretend you never came. Pretend the office was a fluke.
The other part—the one that walked across campus instead of hiding under a blanket—pushes words out of my mouth.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about earlier,” I say quietly.
Jaw tightens. Eyes darken. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Me neither.”
Heat blooms low in my stomach. Panic tries to rise with it, all the old alarms going off at once. I press them down. Just enough to breathe.
“What were you doing?” I ask, nodding toward the ice. “Just staring at the crease?”
He glances back at the empty net like he’d forgotten it was there. Rubs the back of his neck, expression guarded.
“Trying to get my head back in the game,” he admits. “It wasn’t working.”
There’s something raw in that answer. He came here for control, and he couldn't find it.
I understand that more than I should.
“Can I sit?” I ask.
He studies me, then nods once. “Yeah. Come on.”
He turns and steps back into the players’ box. I follow, rubber flooring soft under my sneakers. The boards rise up in front of us, scratched and scarred. From here, the ice looks like a lake at midnight, smooth and empty.
He drops onto the bench. I sit beside him.
We’re not touching. There’s a few inches of space between us, but it feels microscopic. His thigh is a solid line of heat at my side.
For a while, we just breathe.
The hum of the plant fills the air. Somewhere in the distance, a compressor kicks on. The building creaks.
“I shouldn’t have…” I start, then stop. Fingers curl in my lap.
He doesn’t look at me. Eyes stay on the crease. “You shouldn’t have what?”
“Come,” I say. “Probably. This is—” Dangerous. Messy. Against the rules. “Complicated.”
His mouth twists. “Everything already is.”
His hand flexes on his knee. The tape on his knuckles creaks.
I stare at that hand. At the bruises fading yellow under white. At the same fingers that cupped coffee, braced above my head, and pressed his phone into black silence.
Heart pounds so hard it hurts.
“Declan?” I say softly.
He finally looks at me.
My breath catches. There’s a question in his eyes, but something else too—something that looks too much like the way he watches the puck. Focused. Hungry. Controlled only because he’s choosing to.
All my practiced deflections shrivel under that look.
I swallow. My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “I… wish they hadn’t interrupted us.”
The words hang there, fragile and huge. My face burns. I want to take them back and wrap them in something safer, joke them away, pretend they slipped out.
Too late.
He goes absolutely still.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t even seem to breathe. His eyes drop to my mouth, slow and deliberate, replaying the scene in the office the same way I do. Inches. Tilt. Breath.
“Fuck,” he says, a low, wrecked exhale. “Me too.”
Heat rushes through me so fast I almost sway.
He doesn’t move toward me. Not yet. He sits there, like he’s giving me time to run now that the truth is out in the open.
I don’t.
I turn on the bench so my knees face him. Heartbeat is a drumline under my skin, every nerve buzzing. “We were going to,” I say. Voice barely a whisper. “Weren’t we?”
His throat works. Gaze loses some of its sharpness, something raw surfacing. “Yeah,” he says. No hesitation. “We were.”
He turns too, mirroring me until we’re facing each other fully, knees almost touching, the boards at our backs.
His hand lifts, slow enough that I could flinch away if I needed to. I don’t. He brushes his knuckles along my jaw, tape rough and warm against my skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
My ribs feel too tight. I hold his gaze.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.
He stares at me, pupils blown wide. His hand lingers on my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. Warring with himself—monster and monk fighting for the controls.
“Can I?” he asks. Rough. Agonizingly polite.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”
Something in his chest snaps. He leans in.
The first press of his mouth on mine isn’t slow or hesitant; it’s a collision of desperation and restraint, as if he’s been holding back for eternity.
The moment he gets permission, he dives in, lips warm and firm against mine.
There’s no grab, no shove, no demand—just the intoxicating heat of him, a low, helpless sound rumbling from deep within his chest that ignites every nerve in my body.
I make a noise I don’t recognize, a breathless gasp that escapes before I can contain it.
My hand finds the front of his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric, anchoring myself to him.
His other hand cradles the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss.
It’s hungry, a little clumsy, as if he’s trying to memorize every angle, every taste.
My brain throws up every red flag it has: man, mouth, close, danger.
It feels like all those other rooms, those other lives.
But my body… my body knows better. It recognizes the difference between a hand that hits and one that brackets me, steady and sure.
Between a mouth that takes and one that waits for me to meet it.
Declan kisses like he’s terrified of breaking me but equally afraid of not touching me at all.
I lean into it, lost in the sensation. I don’t realize I’ve moved until I feel his hands on my hips, guiding me closer.
“Come here,” he murmurs against my mouth, his breath hot and inviting.
He leans back just enough to give me space, and without thinking, I swing one leg over his lap, then the other, until I’m straddling him on the worn bench.
My knees bracket his thighs, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, matching mine in a frantic rhythm.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice ragged, hands still at my hips, not pushing, just holding. “Yes,” I breathe, the truth spilling out like a secret.
His grip tightens, pulling me in, closing the small gap left between us, and kisses me again.
This time it’s worse—in the best way. The angle shifts, our mouths parting just enough for his tongue to brush my lower lip, sending shockwaves through my entire body.
Heat pools low in my stomach, synchronizing with my pulse, an electric current that leaves me breathless.
A sound slips from my throat, half gasp, half moan, as his hands slide from my hips, exploring my sides, skimming over my ribs.
He halts at the hem of my shirt, fingers flexing against the cotton, wrestling with the urge to go further.
I tilt my head back slightly, breaking the kiss long enough to whisper, “It’s okay.
” I don’t even know what I’m granting permission for.
His eyes search mine, questions swirling there, a thousand unspoken words.
I answer the only way I know how—I kiss him again, harder, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He groans, low and wrecked, finally allowing his hands to move under my shirt.
His palms are hot against the bare skin of my lower back, calloused yet careful.
He doesn’t roam or grab; instead, he spreads his fingers wide, pressing me closer, thumbs drawing slow, unconscious arcs up my spine.
The contrast is dizzying. Every other time hands have slipped beneath my clothes, it felt like a violation, a theft.
This, though, feels like claim and question, all at once.
I kiss him like I’m trying to answer, the world narrowing to heat, breath, and the quiet rumble he emits every time I tug him closer.
My hips shift instinctively, a small, helpless movement that drags me tighter against him, and suddenly, the intensity spikes.
Want crashes over me in a hot, terrifying wave—not just for this bench, this night, this make-out, but for everything.
For his stupid hoodie, his taped hands, and the way he watches doors when we walk into a room.
For the promise of more coffee cups, more silent rooms, and more nights where I’m not alone in the dark. It hits too hard.
“I—” I break the kiss, pulling back just enough that our mouths are no longer touching, foreheads almost bumping.
Breathing is a mess. “Declan…” His hands freeze under my shirt, muscles locking up, arms trembling with the effort to halt the momentum.
I feel the tension vibrating through him, a physical battle to keep his hands from tightening, from taking.
“Too much?” he asks immediately, voice rough but steady. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” The word tumbles out on a shaky exhale. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. He’s right there, pupils blown, chest heaving, veins standing out in his neck. “I just… I need a second.”
Everything in him pulls back without actually moving me. He eases his grip, sliding his hands down so they’re resting at the small of my back instead of pressing. Still under my shirt, but lighter. Less stake, more anchor.
“Okay,” he says softly. “You’ve got it.”
We sit like that for a moment—legs still around him, forehead resting lightly against mine, both of us breathing hard.
Noise of the rink fills in the silence between us. Hum. Creak. The faint, distant tick of something mechanical cooling.
“This is…” I start, then trail off. No word big enough.
Dangerous. Impossible. So good it’s terrifying.
“Yeah,” he says. Voice so quiet it’s almost a thought. “It is.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Helpful.”
“I’m not exactly overflowing with healthy relationship experience, Addison,” he mutters. “You might have noticed.”
“I was too busy noticing your tongue in my mouth,” I say, then want to crawl out of my own skin.