Page 29 of The Hockey Pact

"That sounds exhausting."

"It was," he agreed. "But it also made me who I am. I wouldn't be wearing the 'C' without his pushing."

"Well, there's the whole 'unconditional love' thing most parents go for," I said lightly.

He laughed, but there was something sad in it. "Right. That."

I reached across the table impulsively, touching his hand. "Hey. For what it's worth, I think you turned out pretty great, aggressive hockey dad and all."

His eyes met mine. "Thanks, Riley."

By the time dessert arrived—a chocolate creation that was more architectural feat than food—the atmosphere between us had changed. Each glance held longer. Each brush of hands seemed deliberate. When Caleb reached across the table to wipe a smudge of chocolate from the corner of my mouth, his touch lingered, and the air between us felt charged with possibility.

I wasn't prepared for this—the way my heart raced when he looked at me, how I kept finding excuses to touch him. This wasn't part of our agreement. This wasn't supposed to happen.

When we finally left the restaurant, paparazzi waited outside—tipped off about the new captain's celebration dinner, no doubt. Caleb's arm went around me protectively as we navigated the cameras and questions, his body a solid wall between me and the intrusion.

In the car, I stared out the window, trying to make sense of the evening. This arrangement was supposed to be clean, mutually beneficial without emotional complications. Yet here I was, looking forward to returning home with him, to the comfortable routine we'd established, to the surprising ease of his company.

"You're quiet," Caleb observed as we drove. "Everything okay?"

"Just tired," I lied. "It's been a big day."

"A good day," he corrected, reaching over to take my hand again. "One of the best."

I looked down at our joined hands, his strong fingers entwined with mine. I should pull away. I didn't.

When we reached home, we rode the elevator to the penthouse in silence, standing closer than necessary. The doors opened directly into his—our—penthouse, and as they closed behind us, something in the air shifted.

For a long moment, we just stood there, a few feet apart. The scent of expensive cologne, his signature, mingled with the lingering perfume from my dress, a strange, intimate blend in the dimly lit foyer. My heart was a wild bird trapped in my ribs, beating a frantic rhythm against them.

He moved first. Two long strides and the space between us vanished. His hands, usually so deft with a hockey stick, settled on my arms, gentle yet firm. I felt the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of my dress, a spark that shot straight up to my core. He drew me in, slowly, as if giving me a chance to pull away. I didn’t. I was flush against his chest, the solid wall of him a sudden, overwhelming reality. I could feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat, or maybe it was mine.

“Riley,” he breathed, his voice rough, and my name on his lips was a caress.

My hands, of their own accord, flew up to his shoulders, gripping the expensive material of his suit. I needed an anchor. The world felt like it was tilting. “Caleb,” I whispered back, my voice barely there.

Then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, not like the chaste, performative pecks we’d shared for cameras. This was desperate, searching, a raw collision of pent-up desire and a hunger that had been simmering between us. It was breathless and urgent, a mutual claiming. His lips were firm, demanding, yet there was a tremorof vulnerability in the way he tasted me, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real, that I was real, and yielding. My own lips parted, inviting him in, and his tongue met mine in an exploratory dance that spoke of unspoken longing.

His hands began to roam, eager and a little unsteady at first, tracing the curve of my back, then bolder, one hand sliding down to cup my ass, pressing me more firmly against the rapidly hardening ridge of his erection. A gasp, small and broken, escaped me and was swallowed by his mouth. That tiny sound seemed to fuel his fervor. He deepened the kiss, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me so close I felt molded to him.

We stumbled, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses, towards the living area. I vaguely registered the cool marble under my heels, then the plush rug as we moved further into the vast space. He guided me, his mouth never leaving mine, until the backs of my knees hit something soft – the edge of his enormous, luxurious couch. We sank onto it, the change in elevation only intensifying our embrace. Somehow, I ended up straddling his lap, my dress riding high up my thighs, the friction of our clothed bodies sending shivers of sensation through me.

The make-out session became a heated, almost frantic exploration. His mouth left mine to blaze a trail down my jaw, nipping and tasting, to the sensitive skin of my neck. I arched back, my head falling, granting him greater access, a silent invitation. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pure appreciation, as he nuzzled the pulse point at the base of my throat, his breath hot against my skin.

“I’ve wanted… God, Riley, I’ve wanted this,” he rasped, his lips moving against my neck.

“Me too,” I managed to breathe, the admission startling me with its honesty.

The need to feel skin against skin became an unbearable torment. He fumbled with the zipper of my dress, his fingers surprisingly deft despite their trembling. The soft rasp of the zipper was deafening in the otherwise quiet room, a sound that seemed to strip away the last vestiges of our pretense. He peeled the fabric away from my shoulders, his gaze hot and possessive as it drank in the sight of my skin, the delicate lace of my bra. I felt a blush creep up my neck, but there was a thrilling sort of power in his gaze too.

Emboldened by his raw desire and my own burgeoning, reckless courage, I reached for the lapels of his blue suit. I worked it off his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles in the process before I let it drop to the floor. Then my fingers went to the buttons of his crisp white shirt, fumbling slightly, my knuckles brushing against the warm, solid expanse of his chest. Each touch, each newly bared inch of skin, seemed to erase another line of our carefully constructed, contractual world, fueling our mutual, undeniable hunger.

He groaned softly when my fingers finally freed his chest from its confines. “You have no idea,” he muttered, his eyes dark and intense.

The kissing resumed, a wild, varying cadence – tender nips and soft, adoring caresses interspersed with ravenous, open-mouthed kisses that left us both breathless and wanting more. His mouth found the swell of my breast above my bra, and he laved the skin there, his tongue sending shivers through me, a silent, intoxicating promise of what was to come. I shivered, my fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair, urging him closer, wanting more of whatever this was, this delicious, terrifying feeling.

---