Chapter 9
Mia
The room is quiet now except for our breathing.
Tyler’s chest rises and falls against mine, warm and solid, his skin slick with sweat.
I feel stretched and sore in the best way possible, every nerve still buzzing from the way he touched me, filled me, wrecked me.
I can feel his cum slowly slipping out of me, wet between my thighs, but I don’t move.
I don’t want to move.
His weight is still half on me, half propped on his forearm, and I love it—how heavy he feels, how safe. He shifts a little, just enough to kiss the side of my neck. Soft. Slow. Nothing rushed anymore.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my skin.
I nod. “More than okay.”
His fingers brush a strand of hair off my face and tuck it behind my ear.
That small gesture nearly undoes me all over again.
I look up at him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I really look.
The way the light catches in his hair, strands of silver at his temples.
The fine creases at the corners of his eyes.
That steady, grounded gaze that always feels like it sees more of me than I want to admit.
He’s older. So much older. Broad chest dusted with hair, strong shoulders, and those hands—rough, capable, patient.
His age isn’t just something I tolerate.
It draws me in. He’s in his forties, and he moves like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Like he doesn’t just want to fuck me—he wants to take care of me.
“You’re staring,” he says, voice low, teasing.
“You look…” I trail off, suddenly shy.
“What?” He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against mine.
“Hot,” I whisper.
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that starts in his chest. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I swat at him, and he catches my wrist, kisses the inside of it like he’s memorizing me. Then he shifts, rolls off me gently and pulls me into his side. My head rests on his shoulder, one of his arms draped around me, fingers tracing lazy circles on my bare back.
There’s something about being held like this after everything—after the heat, the noise, the release—that makes me feel more naked than sex ever could. His heart beats under my ear, steady and calm. Mine still feels like it’s catching up.
“You didn’t have to be that good,” I say, half-teasing, half-serious.
“I wasn’t,” he replies. “You just make me feel…” He pauses, searching for the word.
I glance up at him.
“Alive,” he says.
My breath catches. There’s a softness in his eyes now, something unguarded, and it hits me low in my stomach. Not lust—something else. I shift slightly, pressing a kiss to his chest. He smells like skin, sweat, and something clean underneath. Like cedar and warm rain.
I could stay here forever.
“I should clean up,” I whisper, not really moving.
He hums. “Stay a little longer.”
So I do.
His fingers stroke my spine, over and over, until my body melts against him again. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t try to turn it into something else. He just holds me. Like I’m not a mistake. Like he wants to keep me.
It’s stupid how safe I feel in his arms. How right it feels when he presses a kiss to the top of my head and whispers, “You’re incredible, you know that?”
I close my eyes and let myself believe it.
I trace circles on Tyler’s chest with my fingertip, slow and absent, enjoying the way his skin twitches beneath the light touch. He’s still hard in places, warm everywhere, that lazy, satisfied look on his face like I just gave him peace after years of war.
“You’re quiet,” I murmur.
He smiles, just a little. “You have that effect on me.”
I laugh softly and lift my chin. “That’s not what you were saying half an hour ago.”
“No,” he says. “Then I was saying fuck and don’t stop and holy shit.”
I grin. He shifts slightly, still naked, still not trying to cover up a damn thing.
God, he’s too much. All that lean muscle, lightly scarred in places, like stories written on skin.
Salt-and-pepper hair, tousled now, and that quiet control in his eyes that never really goes away—even when he’s laughing.
It’s dangerous how good he looks like this.
“I should’ve ruined you sooner,” I tease.
“You did,” he replies without missing a beat. “Congratulations.”
Then there’s a knock at the door.
Both of us freeze. I glance at him wide-eyed.
“Don’t let that be my brothers,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face.
I stifle a laugh, slipping out from under the sheets.
My legs are still a little shaky, and I feel the heat between my thighs when I move.
I catch Tyler’s eyes as I bend down to grab my bra, and yeah—he’s watching me.
His gaze tracks my every motion like he’s memorizing it.
Like he’s already planning what he wants to do next time.
“You could help, you know,” I say, pulling the bra over my arms.
“Helping would require me to move,” he says lazily. “And I’d rather watch you put your clothes on so I can better enjoy taking them off later.”
“Shameless.”
“Absolutely.”
I grab a loose sweater from the back of the chair, toss it over my head, and try to make sure I don’t look too freshly fucked as I open the door.
It’s Sarah.
She’s standing there awkwardly, hands buried in her coat pockets, cheeks a little pink. Not from the cold.
“Oh—” she says. “Sorry. Did I…?”
“No,” I lie quickly. “What’s up?”
She looks past me for a second, then clears her throat. “I just…I wanted to say I’m sorry about earlier. Jason…he got carried away. He was drinking, and you know how he gets.”
I do. We all do.
But the way she says it, soft and almost apologetic, like she still believes he’s the one who needs defending—that gets to me. I want to snap at her. Ask her why she’s still making excuses for him. But I don’t.
Not now. Not tonight.
I nod instead. “It’s fine.”
She gives me a small, hopeful smile, like she wants to fix something.
I glance over my shoulder. Tyler’s propped up on one elbow, sheets around his hips, completely unbothered. When he sees me look, he mouths, Go, with the faintest smirk.
Before Sarah can follow my line of sight, I step further into the hallway and gently nudge the door behind me, narrowing the angle.
Sarah hesitates, then gestures vaguely behind her. “Anyway, we’re doing the skating party now. For the wedding guests. Just a casual thing—music, spiked cider, all that. Everyone’s already heading over.”
I blink. I’d forgotten all about that.
“I mean, no pressure,” she adds quickly. “But you should come.”
I sigh. “Okay,” I say, stepping halfway out into the hallway. “I’ll come.”
Sarah lights up a little. “Great. I’ll see you there.” She turns and walks off, boots squeaking on the hallway carpet.
I wait until her footsteps fade before slipping back inside, heart beating a little faster—not from guilt, exactly. Just from how close it was.
“She didn’t see you,” I say, my heart still hammering as I lean against the door.
“Wouldn’t mind if she had,” Tyler replies. “Might be fun to see the look on her face.”
I toss a pillow at him. “Behave.”
He chuckles, stretching like a man with no regrets.
He’s spread out across the sheets like sin made flesh.
One arm is folded behind his head, the other resting low across his abdomen.
His bare chest is rising and falling, the scar on his side catching the golden lamplight.
His hair’s a mess, silver streaks glinting against the dark.
There’s something almost obscene about how comfortable he looks in my bed.
I cross my arms. “You’re the athlete. You tell me—feel like gliding around in circles with a bunch of people who think the world begins and ends with Sarah and Jason?”
He smirks, slow and infuriating. “Only if you’re skating with me.”
The words are teasing, but there’s something underneath them. A shift in the air I can feel even across the room.
“I used to go skating every Christmas,” he says, more quietly now. “When I was a kid. There was this pond behind our house. Me, Marcus, Alex—we’d stay out till our fingers went numb. Back when things were…simpler.”
He’s lost in a memory, miles away from this hotel room. But soon he returns to the present with a smirk.
“Okay, old man,” I say, rummaging in my closet for some appropriate clothes. “I’ll get ready.”
“Is that my sign to leave?” he says.
“That’s not what I said,” I say.
He points at himself. “I better get dressed then. You won’t find a better skating partner than me.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
He laughs, stepping into his jeans. “You should’ve seen me in my prime. Forty thousand fans screaming my name, national anthem vibrating in my chest, and me thinking about nothing but speed and power and smashing a guy into the glass.”
I blink. “That…sounds violent.”
He smirks. “Hockey isn’t ballet, baby.”
“You sure you’re up for it, though?” I ask, half teasing. “It’s icy out there. Lot of sharp edges.”
He looks up, grinning. “Is that concern I hear?”
“Just don’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of the kids,” I say, pulling out a cozy sweater.
He shrugs. “I’ve played through two broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder,” he says. “Pretty sure I can handle a rink full of bridesmaids.”
“Sounds fake. But okay.”
He stands and takes a slow step toward me, casual—except his eyes have that glint again. That playful heat that always makes my breath catch.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice dropping low. “You’re going to feel every inch of just how not rusty I am.”
My face goes hot.
“On the ice,” he adds, completely unbothered. “Of course.”
“Of course,” I say.
Still shirtless, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts pulling on his socks and shoes.
“You don’t have to come with me, you know?” I say softly. “I know it’s weird, with all the wedding stuff. People might talk.”
“Mia,” he says, voice suddenly serious. “Let them talk. You think I care what a bunch of wine-drenched guests say about me skating with a woman I like?”
Like.