Page 52 of The Pucking Arrangement

I swallow hard. “At least he didn’t try to flip the board when he was losing.”

Dmitri exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “The board was defective.”

I smirk. “Right. That’s why Adam’s king ended up in your water glass?”

His eyes darken. The teasing, the banter—it shifts, twists into something heavy and charged.

“Careful, solnyshko.”

The Russian rolls off his tongue like a slow, deliberate caress. Thick and smooth and devastating. I grip the counter, my breath shaking. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes me reckless.

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flickers—just for a second—like he’s deciding whether to let me in or shut me out. Then he leans in, close enough that I can feel his breath.

“Little sun.”

The words land like an anvil, knocking the air from my lungs.Little sun.Warmth floods my chest, my stomach, pooling low, twisting tight. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

His jaw flexes, knuckles white around his mug.

“It suits you.” His voice is rough, weighted, thick with barely leashed desire—a hunger so fierce it steals the air from my lungs.

This is it. He’s about to break.

His chest rises and falls too fast, each breath sharp and uneven. Tension coils through his shoulders, tight as a drawn bow, like he’s fighting the urge to close the distance. His gaze flickers—lips, throat, collarbone—before snapping back to mine, dark and scorching.

I was right. He wants me.

He’s hanging by a thread, teetering on the edge of control. One more push, one breath too close, and he’ll shatter. He’ll pin me to the counter, grip my hips in those massive hands, and kiss me like he’s starving, like he needs to taste me to stay upright.

And God help me, I want him to break.

I want him to lose.

I want to be the thing that ruins Dmitri Sokolov.

But then, tiny footsteps thunder down the stairs, and we jolt apart like we’ve been electrocuted.

Ris bursts into the kitchen, still in her pajamas, her curls bouncing as she runs straight for Dmitri. “Papa!The bears have made a very important decision!”

His entire body shifts. Just like that, the smoldering tension vanishes. He catches her midair, his lips pressing to the top of her head, his voice warm and steady like nothing just happened.

Like he wasn’t about to swallow me whole. I exhale shakily, gripping the counter so I don’t collapse into it.

Dmitri glances at me over the top of his daughter’s head. And the look in his eyes tells me he’s not forgetting this either.

Ris turns to me, jubilant. “Papa was a beast! Did you see when he crashed into that huge guy?”

I nod, noticing how his shirt rode up, exposing a strip of abs. The glimpse of bare skin lingers, flashing in my mind like an afterimage while I crack eggs into a bowl.

Focus, Erin. Breakfast. Not his stupid muscles.

“Hockey plays stay on ice,Amnushka,” he rumbles, but his eyes crinkle with pride.

I focus on preparing the food. I can guess his post-game breakfast —six eggs with extra whites, some complex carbs.

Ris bounces in his arms. “Erin! Make the eggs the special way! With the secret cheese!”

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