Chapter Six #2
The heat of her body pressed against his made his head spin. Her tongue traced his bottom lip and he groaned, tightening his
grip on her waist.
When they broke apart, her breath came quick against his mouth. The movie played forgotten, casting blue light across her
flushed skin. Her hair was falling loose where he’d tangled his fingers in it, and he could feel her heart racing where his
hand rested against her ribs. She looked like every dream he’d ever had, but better—because she was real, and she was here,
and she was staring as if she wanted this just as much.
“Gale . . .” His name was half warning, half plea.
“I know.” He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to steady his racing heart. “But I’ve wanted this since I can remember.
Since you first started coming over to my house and I could barely string two words together around you.”
She laughed softly, her fingers moving to trace his jaw. Her touch was featherlight but it burned everywhere she made contact.
“That makes it more complicated, not less.”
“Screw simple.” He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, feeling her pulse flutter under his lips. “I want you. I’ve
always wanted you.” The confession hung between them, years in the making.
Her eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. “You’re making it very hard to be sensible right now.”
“Good,” he murmured, and when she pulled him down for another kiss, she surprised him by pushing against his shoulders. He
let her guide him back against the couch cushions, his heart hammering as she followed. The way she took control sent heat
rushing through him.
“You know, you’ve grown up pretty well, Knight.” Her fingers traced down his chest, and he couldn’t help but shudder.
“Still the same guy who used to trip over his own feet whenever you walked into a room,” he managed, but then her teeth grazed
his bottom lip and coherent thought became impossible.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her cheeks flushed. Something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty mixed with want—and
then she shifted slightly in his lap. The tentative movement nearly undoing him.
“Fuck . . .” His voice came out embarrassingly strangled.
But the sound seemed to embolden her. He’d always known her as controlled, deliberate. Seeing her like this—testing boundaries,
trying something new—was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced.
She took her time kissing him now. Like she was discovering what made him tick, what made his breath catch.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“Hell, yes,” he breathed, unable to look away from her. “You have no idea how okay.”
Her hands wandered over his chest more confidently now, exploring the muscles there, and when her nails scraped across his
abs, his hips jerked involuntarily.
“Oops. Sorry,” she whispered, starting to pull back.
“Don’t be.” His voice was raw. “You can . . . you can do that again. You can do anything you want.”
Her eyes darkened at that, and the smile that curved her lips made his stomach flip. “Anything?”
The word held a universe of possibilities. And God help him, but he meant it. He’d let Harriet Smythe do whatever she wanted
to him. He always had.
She traced one finger down his jaw, watching his reaction. When she reached his neck, she replaced the finger with her lips,
and his hands tightened on her hips. Her mouth found that sensitive spot below his ear. She grazed it with her teeth before
biting down slowly, deliberately, with just enough pressure to make him groan.
“I’ve thought about what you might sound like,” she murmured against his skin. “More than I should have.”
That confession, combined with the feel of her breath on his neck, nearly broke him. “How—” His voice cracked and he had to
try again. “How long?”
She pulled back to look at him, and there was something vulnerable in her eyes despite her position in his lap. “For for always,
obviously. But a while. Turns out you fill out a jersey pretty well after twenty,” she said, her cheeks flushing darker.
The idea that she’d been wanting him too made him dizzy. “Just the jersey?” he couldn’t help asking.
Her laugh was shaky. “You’re trouble.”
“Only for you.” He meant it to sound teasing, but it came out too honest. There was a certain unspoken magic in the space,
as if they were encased in a soap bubble, pressing lightly on the edge—just a fraction more pressure and the whole thing would
pop. The famous line from the movie kept being uttered on the TV, the whole bit about the pirate farm boy wanting to do whatever
the woman wished.
He’d like to do that for Harriet. He’d like to ask her to share whatever she wished and see how he could please her. His hands
slid down to her hips, drawing her closer, and her answering sigh made his head spin.
Vrrrrr . . . vrrrrr. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Coach’s name lit up the screen.
Harriet shifted in his lap, started to move back. “You should—”
“Ignore it,” he murmured against her neck. But Coach never called this late. Something twisted in his gut.
The phone buzzed again. Harriet’s hands stilled on his chest.
“Damn it.” He pulled back, trying to focus. “I’m sorry. I have to—Coach doesn’t call unless—”
“Of course.” She slid off his lap, and the loss of her warmth was immediate. “I’ll just pause the—”
“No, no. Keep on trucking. The big rodents are next and they freak me out.”
She gave a little snort, shaking her head even as she grinned. “The big rats are 80’s animatronic robots. They can’t hurt
you.”
“You act like there is logic involved here.”
He answered the call as she laughed, trying to keep his voice casual as he walked to the sliding doors to the pool, and slid
out into the chilled night air. “Hey. What’s up?”
“We need to discuss the upcoming schedule,” Coach’s gruff voice came through the speaker.
Gale’s stomach tightened. “Okay, what?” His breath came out in a puff.
“There are changes to the line up. I’m just going to say it. You’re going to be a healthy scratch.”
“Hold up.” The words hit Gale like a body check. A healthy scratch meant he was good to play—not injured, not sick—but they
didn’t want him on the ice. They were choosing to bench him. After five years in the NHL, hundreds of games, this was basically
saying he wasn’t good enough anymore. That some rookie deserved his spot more than he did. “Is this a joke?”
“We’re trying to shake things up, give some of the other guys more ice time.”
Gale’s jaw clenched. More ice time. Right. Because his minutes weren’t worth anything anymore. One scratch could turn into
two, then three, then suddenly you’re watching every game from the press box in a suit instead of on the bench in your gear.
Your career bleeding away one missed game at a time.
Shit. Gale’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could feel Harriet’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at
her. He knew Coach. If Gale got mad this would only get worse. Better to suck it up. He tapped his fist against the center
of his forehead, closing his eyes. “How long are we talking?”
Coach’s sigh crackled through the phone. “I’ll reassess when the time feels right. I know this isn’t the news you want to
hear, but it’s what’s best for the Regals right now.”
Gale’s jaw tightened. “Yep, okay. I got it.”
“You take care.”
When he hung up, the phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete. It was in a durable case. It would be fine.
Unlike his fucking career.
When he looked up, Harriet was sliding open the door while smoothing down her shirt. Her lips were still swollen from their kisses, but something in his expression made her take a step back. Reality had crept back in.
“I should get going. That was a mistake,” she said softly. “We shouldn’t have . . .”
“Yeah,” he managed. “You’re probably right.” The fight drained out of him. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t try to convince her.
Not with his career imploding. Not when getting close to him now would only drag her down too.