Chapter 34 #3
Wanting it was one thing. Building it was another.
And I still had no idea whether that future was possible for us.
“Skate with me,” I blurted.
His breathing hitched. “I would like that.”
I went over to my phone and scrolled through my playlist.
Then I saw it. ‘Earned It’ by The Weeknd, slow, controlled, intimate, with that heavy pulse underneath restraint.
Perfect.
I clicked on it, then returned to Luka, held out my hand to him, and led him onto the ice.
Luka
Dean’s hand settled against my waist to guide the rotation, and the contact felt instantly dangerous. Not because of the skating, but because of how naturally my body answered him.
We had spent days touching each other. In his room, in his bed, half asleep beneath tangled sheets while the rest of the Olympic Village carried on around us.
None of that should have made this difficult, and yet the second his hand found me, the ice stopped being the thing I was paying attention to.
His palm spread against the curve of my hip through the thin fabric of my training shirt, warm even in the cold air of the rink, his fingers firm enough to control the turn without force.
I felt every adjustment he made: the subtle pressure of his thumb, the drag of his fingertips as our momentum shifted together.
My breath caught badly enough to throw off the timing, and Dean noticed.
His eyes flicked toward me for half a second, dark beneath the dim lights, before he pulled me smoothly into the next sequence as if nothing had happened, the music rolling slow and low through the empty rink.
No cameras. No judges. No federation officials pretending not to watch us too closely.
There was only the music, the sound of blades carving ice, and our breathing slipping out of sync.
We crossed into backward crossovers, our bodies moving close enough that Dean’s forearm brushed along my ribs every time he drove through a push. Our thighs touched briefly on the step sequence, accidental at first, then not entirely accidental after that.
By the third sequence I was actively avoiding looking at him.
Every turn seemed to bring us together again.
Every correction left Dean’s hand on my waist a second longer than necessary.
Then his hand slid lower, enough that I felt it everywhere, and my pulse slammed against my throat.
I missed an edge.
My blade skidded sideways with a violent scrape, my balance disappearing instantly beneath me, but Dean reacted before panic could fully hit. One arm locked around my waist, pulling me hard against him while the other caught my wrist.
Momentum spun us together. Our skates carved a rough arc across center ice before we stopped chest to chest, breathing hard.
Too close. Far too close.
My hands were flattened against his shoulders now, my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. I could feel his heartbeat through it, fast, uneven, matching mine almost exactly.
Dean stared at me. “You have to stop doing that,” he said in a low voice.
“What?”
“Losing focus when I touch you.”
The words sent heat straight through me.
“This was your idea,” I murmured.
Dean’s gaze dropped to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
“Yeah. I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
Neither of us moved.
The music surrounded us, almost painfully intimate, all long notes and slow rhythm, and suddenly skating itself felt different, sensual in a way it never could be under arena lights. I lost myself in long edges, slow glides, our bodies aligning perfectly through movement.
Dean’s thumb shifted once against my side, a tiny movement that sent a shock through me far more effectively than the near fall.
Then the music stopped, and the spell was broken.
We skated together, easy strokes down the length of the rink while cold air rushed around us and blades whispered against the ice.
My heart struggled to find its natural rhythm.
Outside, the winter light slowly began fading toward evening. I glanced toward the darkening windows and sighed.
“We should go.”
Yet again, neither of us moved.
Reality waited beyond the walls of the rink.
Tomorrow waited too. I would step back into the spotlight, under scrutiny in the careful world that had shaped me for years.
Except now I was no longer the same person who entered Milan.
Both Dean and I understood there was no undoing that.
We lingered outside, waiting for the car that would take us back to the Village. Cold air curled around us while the city glowed gold in the distance.
I stepped closer to Dean until our foreheads rested together.
“They’ll be looking for signs now.”
“Let them.”
I expected the familiar knot of dread.
It never arrived.
Little by little, the tension in my shoulders seeped from me. Dean tucked two fingers under my chin, tilting my face toward his.
“You okay?”
I kissed Dean on the mouth. “Better than okay,” I whispered against his lips. “I’m not afraid anymore.”
His arms tightening around me was the perfect response.
“It’s still Valentine’s.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “We could go into the city and find a cozy little bistro, candlelight, wine…”
I chuckled. “I love the idea, but… not tonight.”
“There’s always the alternative.” I looked up at him, and he grinned.
“Pizza, my room? And I’ll bet Noah could find us a bottle of wine.
He seems to have no problem doing that.” Another gentle kiss.
“You don’t skate until gone eight o’clock tomorrow night.
You know your program like the back of your hand. ”
I tried to give him a stern look. “You are a temptation, Dean Foster.”
He grinned. “Ooh, that sounds as if I’m wearing you down. So let me sweeten the pot with something you’ll never get in Milan.” His breath tickled my ear. “Naked pizza.”
I laughed. “Okay, you win. I concede defeat.”
“And for dessert…” His lips were on my throat. “We could cross something else off your list.”
I cupped his cheek, gazing into his eyes. “Just you, inside me. Loving me.”
Dean’s breathing hitched.
“Sounds like the perfect way to end today.”