Chapter 21 – Trace
chapter
twenty-one
Trace
By the time we left the gala, Lena was running on fumes.
Heels kicked off in the Range Rover, bare feet tucked under her on the leather, braids loosening over one shoulder.
She had this thing she did when she was tired where she pressed her cheek against the window like a kid on a road trip.
Gold hoops still in, mascara smudged, burgundy satin catching streetlights every time we passed under one.
I kept glancing over like some kind of goddamn lunatic who'd never seen a girl in a dress before.
Jesus Christ, I was in love with her.
Holy fuck.
"You saved my ass tonight." I made myself look at the road. "Aaron was impressed. Hell, everyone was."
She slouched against the headrest and gave me the kind of smile that made it hard to drive in a straight line.
"Those kids in the youth program were the best part.
Talking to them about what sports gave me, seeing their faces light up.
.." She went quiet, watching Chicago slide past the window. "God, I miss playing."
The way she said it, like she was talking about a person and not a sport, did something ugly to my chest. I wanted to fix it. Make some calls, pull some strings, clear whatever was in her way. But this was Lena, and Lena didn't let anyone fix things for her. She barely let people hold the door.
Four years of watching her carry the weight of the world and tonight was the first time she let me help. I wasn't wasting it.
The valet took the Range Rover at the Peninsula and wind hit us the second I stepped out.
Wind off Lake Michigan cutting straight through my suit jacket like it had a personal grudge.
I came around to her door, put my hand on the small of her back where the dress dipped low, bare skin still warm from the heated seats, and walked her inside.
Don't fuck this up, Coulter.
Yeah. My palms were sweating. This was new. She was everything.
But we hadn't finished that conversation, and I had no idea if I was about to share a bed with Lena or spend the night staring at the ceiling from a couch, spinning out about what I should have said instead.
The lobby was marble and fresh-cut lilies, hushed in the way that only five-star hotels at midnight can be. I spotted a sign for a private screening room off the main hall and grabbed her hand before I could talk myself out of it.
"Hey. There's a theater down here."
Her eyes lit up. "Ooh, do you think they have popcorn?"
"Obviously."
The screening room was ridiculous even by Peninsula standards. Twelve seats, curved screen, deep leather recliners, cashmere blankets on every armrest. I tapped in my room code and ordered popcorn, sodas, and enough candy to put us both in a coma.
"This is amazing. It's just for us?"
"You pick the movie. I picked the snacks, so it's only fair."
She chose Pitch Perfect. By the time the snacks arrived and the opening credits rolled, we'd settled into the wide recliner in the middle.
Blankets across our laps, lights dimmed.
She'd tucked her bare feet up, the burgundy dress pooling around her thighs, a cashmere blanket draped over her shoulders, systematically destroying a bag of sour gummy worms while mouthing along to the audition songs.
Just sitting next to her in a dark room watching a stupid movie was the happiest I'd been in months. And I'd just won three straight games and gotten scouted by two NHL teams.
You are a deeply unserious person, Coulter.
Halfway through, she laughed so hard she snorted, then slapped her hand over her mouth, mortified. I was a Division I hockey player who'd seen some incredible shit on the ice, and nothing compared to Lena Hartwell stress-eating gummy worms and snort-laughing at Pitch Perfect.
Every now and then I caught her glancing at me. Quick looks she thought I didn't notice, her eyes sliding to my mouth then darting away.
I finally gave up and just went for it. Took the popcorn bucket out of her lap and set it on the floor.
"Hey. I was eating that."
"I know. But I need you focused for a sec." The playfulness dropped off her face. "In the car, I told you I was done pretending. You never gave me an answer. And it's killing me because I'm praying the answer is yes, but I want to brace myself if it's no."
Her gaze lifted to mine and my heart rate ticked up. "I want you." Her voice was quiet and steady, even as her fingers twisted the edge of the blanket. "I've wanted you for a long time, Trace. I was just too scared to say it."
"Thank fuck," I muttered before hauling her into me and kissing her like I'd been starving for it. Because I had been. For four goddamn years I had been.
She made a sound against my mouth, surprised then not, and kissed me back with the same reckless desperation that was clawing through me.
I pulled her into my lap without breaking the kiss and she came willingly, climbing over me, the blanket sliding off, her dress riding up her thighs as she straddled me. The weight of her settled onto my cock through my dress pants and the pressure ripped a groan out of me that she swallowed.
She rolled her hips once, testing, and the friction punched a sound out of me so raw it echoed in the empty theater. She did it again, pressing down, and I gripped her hips while she ground harder, finding an angle that made both of us lose air.
My hands slid up her back and found the zipper. I paused with my fingers on the pull, and she reached behind her and dragged it down herself.
The satin loosened. When I peeled it off her shoulder and found nothing underneath, all I could do was stare. She hadn't been wearing one all night. Under that dress. At a charity gala.
Brain offline.
Her breasts were bare and perfect, nipples dark and stiff from the cool air, and she was sitting in my lap half-naked and I genuinely forgot how to move.
"Trace." She was watching my face. "You're staring."
"Give me a second. I'm processing."
She laughed, nervous and breathy, and the movement made her breasts shift and I stopped processing anything.
I cupped her with both hands, the weight of her filling my palms, and my thumbs grazed both nipples at once.
She jerked, her hips stuttering against me, and the dual sensation of my hands on her and her grinding on my cock through my pants ripped a sound out of her that I wanted tattooed on my brain.
"Don't tease me right now." Her voice had an edge that went straight to my cock.
So I didn't.
I closed my lips over her nipple and sucked, and her spine arched so hard her head tipped back.
No lace this time, just her skin against my tongue, the stiff peak between my lips responding to every pull.
In my room she'd had a bra on and the rough fabric had made it filthier, but this was different.
This was just her. And the rawness of bare skin under my mouth felt more intimate than anything we'd done before.
Her fingers fisted my hair and pulled hard enough that I groaned against her breast and my hips bucked up into her.
We found a rhythm without trying. Her hips rolling in slow, filthy circles while my tongue worked her nipple, my free hand rolling the other between my fingers, tugging gently then harder when she moaned.
I switched sides and she sobbed, her nails raking the back of my neck hard enough to leave welts. I was so hard I could barely think. Every roll of her hips dragged her wet heat along the length of me through the thin layers between us.
I sucked hard and ground up into her, my teeth grazing the peak. "Come on my lap, Lena. Give it to me."
It didn't take long. Her whole body went rigid, thighs clamping around mine, fingers yanking my hair hard enough to snap my head back. I held her through it, one arm locked around her waist, my cheek pressed between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat hammer while the aftershocks rolled through her.
She was shaking. I was shaking harder. My cock throbbing against my zipper so hard my vision was blurring.
"Oh my God." She sounded wrecked. "I just... in a movie theater..."
"Yeah, you did. And it was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me, for the record."
She shifted in my lap and I hissed through my teeth. Her hand slid down my chest and I caught her wrist before she reached my belt.
"I am so fucking hard for you right now that if you touch me I'm going to come in my pants, and I'd really rather do this properly." I pressed my forehead to hers. "I think we should go upstairs."
A slow smile spread across her face. "Yeah. We should."
* * *
We barely made it out of the theater. Completely committed to kissing and touching as much as possible.
We half-stumbled the rest of the way, stopping twice more because every time she looked at me I had to kiss her again and the hallway was very long and she was very close. Thankfully, the elevator was empty.
The second the doors closed her hand slid down and palmed me through my pants, her eyes going wide at the feel of me.
"Lena. Room. Thirty seconds. I am begging you."
She grinned against my mouth. The grin of a girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Then she pulled back with her hands up.
Longest thirty seconds of my life.
I'd called ahead and asked for the works. Corner suite, thirty floors up, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the skyline, amber lamps dimmed low, fresh peonies on the nightstand, champagne sweating on the credenza. The bed was massive, white linens turned down.
I'd wanted Lena to have the whole experience.
She stopped two steps inside the door with her lips parted, her eyes sweeping from the windows to the flowers to the city stretched out below us. "Trace." She turned to me, still holding the blanket around her shoulders, bare feet on marble. "You did this?"
"Maybe." I shut the door behind us and ducked my head to catch her eyes. "You good? Because we can open that champagne and just talk. Or I can take the couch..."