Page 178 of The Pucking Arrangement

His lips crush against mine. His hands tangle in my hair, his body anchoring me to the bed, stealing my breath, consuming me completely.

Maybe we could stay here forever.

* * *

Later, we’re walking through the West Village, his hand engulfing mine, thumb tracing idle circles against my palm. We must look like any other couple, soaking in the late afternoon sun.

But we’re not just any couple.

We’re acountdown.

And I still don’t know what happens when the clock runs out.

“I love this neighborhood,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “It took me a while to get this place.”

Dmitri glances down at me. “You deserve better. Bigger.”

I arch a brow. “On a musician’s salary? Not in Manhattan.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Money isn’t?—”

“Don’t.” I stop walking, tugging his hand to make him face me. “Don’t offer to solve my housing situation with your hockey millions.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “That’s not what I want from you.”

His jaw flexes, but there’s a teasing smirk lurking at the edges of his mouth. “No? Then what do you want from me?” His voice drops, rich with suggestion. “My body at your disposal? I’d be happy to oblige,solnyshko. Any time, day or night. Just come sit in my lap, and we’re on.”

It’s a deflection. A deliberate one. An easy joke to twist the moment into something light.

Not this time.

I straighten, my grip tightening around his. “Honestly? Clarity.” My voice doesn’t waver. “Last night was…overwhelming. In the best way,” I add quickly, catching the way his expression darkens. “But I need to know where we go from here.”

For a fraction of a second, I think he’s going to give me a real answer. His eyes soften. He draws in a breath, like he’s about to say something that actually matters.

Then his gaze flicks past me, and just like that, the moment is gone.

“Wait here,” he says, dropping my hand and striding toward the curb.

“Are you serious right now?” I call after him, frustration flaring. “That’s it? Just wait here?”

But he’s already hailing a cab, that maddeningly effortless hand raise of his summoning a yellow taxi in record time. Before I can argue, he’s pulling open the door and looking at me expectantly.

“Get in.”

I plant my feet. Cross my arms. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” The gleam in his eyes is both maddening and irresistible.

“You know, most women hate surprises from emotionally evasive men.”

His laugh is low and indulgent. “You’re not most women. You’re mysolnyshko.”

Damn him for being impossible. And damn me for going along with it anyway. With a dramatic sigh that I only partially mean, I slide into the cab. “This better be good, Sokolov. And I don’t care how big and scary you are. I mean it. And it better involve actual conversation at some point.”

He chuckles as he slides in next to me, his thigh pressing against mine in the backseat. Then he leans forward and gives the driver an address I don’t catch.

“Seriously?” I elbow him. “Secret destinations now?”

The smirk he gives me should be illegal. “Trust me.”

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