Page 101 of The Pucking Arrangement

My phone sits on the desk, a silent, burning temptation.

It’s been twelve hours since I left Erin. Twelve hours since I held her. Since I left her lying in my bed, sated and spent.

And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since.

The day had been hell after landing in Florida—light skate, film review, and an hour of media obligations where I grunted one-word answers while replaying every little gasp I coaxed out of her. I nearly took Finn’s head off during a simple drill because he wouldn’t stop smirking about how distracted I looked.

Now it’s evening, and my control is fucking gone.

My phone buzzes and my breath stalls.

For one, heart-stopping second, I think it’s her.

It’s Liam.

[Liam]: Sophie says Erin’s acting weird. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, big guy?

I curse in Russian, dragging both hands through my hair.

I know all about it. Her moans as I spread her out on my sheets, taking my time. Her screams when I used my mouth. Her shattering over and over until all she could think of was me.

Another text:

[Liam]: Dima. You there?

I exhale sharply, willing my pulse to slow.

[Me]: Everything’s fine.

I glance at my watch. Eight o’clock.

She must have put Ris to bed and is probably reading in the living room or working on her videos.

The team is probably wondering where I am. But the thought of sitting through dinner, pretending to care about fucking salmon while Erin’s in my house, waiting for me —

I want her inmybed.

Fuck it.

I grab my phone, fingers hovering over her contact. One tap, and I’ll see her face. One tap, and I’ll hear her voice.

The screen lights up.

My pulse thunders.

She’s sitting in bed, propped against a heap of pillows, a book on her lap. WearingmyT-shirt. It hangs off one shoulder, her preferred look showing off those toned muscles and exposing golden skin, her hair a wild cascade over her collarbone.

Her eyes are smoldering. Hungry.

“Hi.”

I drag in a slow breath, forcing my grip to relax on the phone. “Is this a good time?” My voice is thick. “Ris asleep?”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “She had a great day at school, ate well. We tried to call you before dinner, but you didn’t answer.”

“I saw. Interviews.” I pause, drinking her in. “My T-shirt looks good on you.”

She bites her lip, and a low growl rumbles in my chest.

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