Page 83 of Mr. Charming

He sighs, forehead dropping against my shoulder. “I think I knocked your clock over.”

I laugh. “So your hand-eye coordination only works on the ice.”

He scoffs, lifting his head and narrowing his eyes. “I have elite reflexes.”

I arch a brow. “Oh yeah? Then explain why you got hit in the face with a puck last season.”

He hums and kisses me briefly before shedding my shirt, then his. God, his chest is even more impressive than it was three years ago. My eyes feast on his beauty, and when they meet his again, he’s smirking. So arrogant.

“Just so you know, the puck in the face was an accident.”

“Was it?” I quirk my eyebrow. “From what I heard, you were chirping at McIntosh so much he took a slapshot at your head just to shut you up.”

His eyes narrow. “Good to know you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

I shrug. “It’s my job.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I grin, sliding my hands over his broad shoulders, my fingers skimming his scars and bruises from the way he gives his all every game. “You love it.”

His gaze darkens, lips quirking. “You know what I love?”

He flips us suddenly, lifting me on top of him with his ridiculous strength. My fingers run down the curves and valleys of his chest. His body is solid muscle, years of training carved into every inch of him. He watches me touch him, and as my eyes meet his, I see how much desire fills them, and I forget how to breathe.

I swallow. “Uh…what was the question?”

He laughs, shaking his head. Inching up, holding his weight on his elbows, his lips brush my jaw, slow and teasing, before trailing down my neck.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about doing this since you got to Chicago,” he murmurs against my heated skin.

I shiver. “And yet, you tried to act like you hated me.”

“It’s a defense mechanism. You know that…” He lifts his head, eyes locking onto mine. “If I recall, you weren’t too happy with me either. Although I knew you wanted me. How much willpower did it take for you to walk out of that room in Peeper’s that night?”

I hesitate. “None at all.”

His gaze stays steady. “So that shudder down your spine was just a cold draft?” He drags a finger down my spine, and the same shiver racks my body.

I swallow, my fingers curling on his chest. “It’s winter in Chicago.”

He exhales slowly, brushing his nose against mine, breathing me in. “You knew we’d end up here.”

Maybe I did. Maybe I’ve spent years pretending I’ve moved on, only to realize I never really had.

I bite my lip. “You still talk too much.”

His smirk returns. “You love it.” And before I can argue, he kisses me again, deep and exploring, but pulls back as it’s getting good. “Admit it now?”

“Nope.” I inch back and unbutton his pants. “You’re wasting time when you could have me naked.”

He flips me again. “You always were the smarter one of us.”

As his pants are splayed open, I can see a glimpse of his boxer briefs as he sheds me of my leggings. He stands at the end of the bed, staring at me as though he still can’t believe I’m here. He pushes his jeans down his legs, revealing his thickly muscled thighs and the bulge straining his boxer briefs.

“Tell me you have a condom or, even better, a box of them?” he says, putting his fingers on either side of his boxers, tugging them off his hips and down his legs.

I lick my lips, feeling like a starved woman from the first glimpse of his length in three long years. “Tweetie Sorenson doesn’t carry a condom around with him?” I tease, and he lifts his eyebrows.

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