32. Chapter Thirty-Two #3
"Told him to mind his own business." He grins. "But yeah, we should probably register there."
"Kevin—"
"I'm serious." He turns me around to face him, and his hand moves softly to cup my face. "I want to marry you. I want everyone to know you're mine, with or without a jersey. Want to put a ring on your finger so there's no question."
My throat goes tight. "You're really asking me this? Right now? After that?"
"I'm not asking you because of that, Sarah. But I am going to ask you. And I'm asking you properly. This isn’t it. But I have a feeling you're going to say yes because you're already wearing my name and living in my condo and carrying my baby." His grin turns softer. "And because you love me."
"Presumptuous."
"Confident." He kisses me softly. "It’s not quite the same, baby."
"The contract—"
"Already told Carl. Already told Dave. I'm staying in Austin. We're staying in Austin. Together. They need to figure it out." His hand moves to my stomach. "This is our home. This is our life. And I want to make it official."
I kiss him. Long and slow and full of promise.
"I love you, Kevin St. Clair."
"I love you too. Now let's get you out of this jersey so I can take my time with you properly in our bed."
"Our bed?"
"Our bed. Our place. Our life." He stands, lifts me with him. "Get used to it, Sarah St. Clair."
The name hits me right in the chest.
Sarah St. Clair.
Soon.
Hopefully.
"Say it again."
His grin is absolutely devastating. "Sarah St. Clair. We're changing your name as quick as we can."
He stands up, then lifts me gently, and carries me to the bedroom, placing me in the center of the bed carefully.
This is a whole different Kevin than only moments before, when we'd barely gotten the door to the condo closed before we began tearing at each other.
The jersey comes off — finally — and Kevin takes his time.
Slow and thorough and worshipful.
Mapping every inch of my skin like he's painting it.
"You're so beautiful. So fucking perfect." He settles between my legs, kissing where the wetness from before has dried. "But I want to taste you."
His mouth traces a path straight to my core. Kissing, biting, worshipping.
"Kevin—"
"Patience," he says, then goes right back to work like this is his job, instead of being a hockey player.
When his tongue finds exactly where I need him, I arch off the mattress.
"That's it. Let me hear you."
He works me with his mouth — licking, sucking, tongue circling my clit in a rhythm that has me gasping his name. His hands hold my hips down when I try to move. Building me up, pulling back, building again.
"Please—"
"Not yet."
"I swear to—"
He adds his fingers. Curls them just right, hitting that spot inside while his mouth stays locked on my clit.
I come apart. Gasping his name, thighs shaking around his head.
He doesn't stop. Keeps going until I'm boneless and shaking.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are locked on me, telling me it's not over and he knows what he wants.
And he's going to get it.
I’m ready to make good each and every promise, on all the best kinds of trouble.
He slides into me slowly. Inch by inch until he's fully seated. "I've got you."
This time it's not rushed or desperate. It's intimate. Real. Not frantic and fumbled like the first time when he came back broken from Vancouver.
Not like how we spent weeks trying to convince ourselves it was a series of one-night-stands that couldn't mean anything.
This means everything.
And now, we're here. His forehead pressed to mine. Our breathing synchronized. Moving together like we've done this a thousand times.
Like we have each other’s agreement to do it a thousand times more.
He moves slow. Deep. Each stroke seems deliberate, like he's memorizing exactly how I feel around him.
I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper. "Don't stop."
"Never." His hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit. Circling. Pressing.
The combination of his cock and his fingers and the way he's looking at me — it's too much. But it will never be enough.
"Kevin— I'm—"
"Let go. I've got you."
I come with his name on my lips, clenching around him. He follows seconds later, face buried in my neck, my name not much more than a broken sound.
When we finish — both of us shaking, gasping, holding onto each other like lifelines — he pulls me against his chest.
His hand finds the spot on my back where his name was.
Traces invisible letters.
"Wear it again Friday," he says quietly.
"Every game."
And yeah, I believe in his promise to make Austin want to keep him.
But I realize what this moment really means.
If being completely gone for him — which there’s no denying I am — means Vegas or Vancouver…
Or the moon? Well, then, that looks completely different now than it did when the season started.
I'll pack Ranger and open a space rescue, if that's what it means to claim Kevin St. Clair to the whole universe for the rest of my life.
Because I'm not losing Kevin St. Clair to a zip code.
And I'm keeping the jersey.