Page 42 of Icing the Cougar
He kisses me, softer now, mouth swollen and desperate. “I fucking love you,” he confesses.
I pull him down and hold him close, letting the silence stretch. “I love you too, Jasper.”
He rests his forehead on my shoulder, still inside me, hands shaking. Then he laughs, quiet and amazed. “Holy shit,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, because there’s nothing else to say.
We fix ourselves, him zipping up, me tugging up my leggings. He helps me off the hood like I’m made of glass, which is sweet, considering how hard he just fucked me.
He cups my face in both hands, searching my eyes. “You good?”
“Better than good,” I confirm.
He kisses me again sweetly. Then he takes my hand and leads me to the passenger side, opening the door like a gentleman. I climb in, still shaking, and he rounds the car to slide behind the wheel.
We sit in the darkness for a minute.
Then he turns to me, grinning like a kid. “You want to get pizza?”
I laugh, a real, belly-deep laugh, and nod. “Yeah,” I say. “But only if you promise to fuck me like that again when we get home.”
He winks, cocky and sure, but his hand trembles as he takes mine.
“Deal,” he says.
We drive off, leaving the empty garage and all our old ghosts behind.
We drive in silence, hands clasped over the gearshift, headlights cutting through the night. Everything I ever needed is right here, in the curve of his mouth when he glances over at me, in the way our fingers tangle and squeeze. We’re still a mess, but at least it’s a beautiful one.
Epilogue
Jasper
The rooftop of my apartment complex has string lights strung overhead, and out past the glass railing is the beautiful Chicago night skyline. There’s supposed to be a storm later, but right now the weather’s perfect. It’s warm and not too hot.
The whole Chicago Blades crew is here, plus wives, girlfriends, random friends, and a couple of the rookies who still can’t believe they made the squad. Riley already commandeered the grill, flipping burgers like he was born for it with his girlfriend Amelia and sister Kindra, who will be getting married next season. Zach is mixing drinks at the bar, sliding cans of Spindrift and bottles of Tito’s down the counter with a precision I wish he’d show on the ice.
Trinity is holding court on the north side of the deck, right by the outdoor kitchen. I spot her by the shock of auburn hair, one hand wrapped around a lemonade, the other tucked under her stomach like it’s a secret. She’s showing now, not huge but definitely past “could be a food baby” territory. The Blades t-shirt she’s wearing is tight enough to show off the curve, and the number on the back—my number—makes my chest go hot every time I see it.
She’s not nervous. Not even a little. She’s talking with a couple of the younger guys, the ones who used to say shit about my girl’s age. Now they’re leaning in, listening as she tells some story, laughing along with her. She gestures with her free hand, animated, confident, completely at home.
Only a few short months ago, she would have been clinging to the edges of the party, sipping mineral water and pretending she wasn’t cataloging every insecurity in the room. I still remember the first time I tried to bring her to one of these, how she ducked out after an hour, texting me from the lobby that she had a “headache” and would Uber home. She told me later it was because she couldn’t stand the way people looked at us—like she was a babysitter, or a second-grade teacher at a student’s birthday.
Now? She looks like she owns the place.
I take a minute to watch her, to let the feeling sink in. There’s a comfort in it I can’t explain, like slipping on a hoodie still warm from the dryer. Every so often she glances over and catches me staring. She raises an eyebrow, mouth curving up in a smile that dares me to come over. I do, obviously.
As I pass Riley, he calls out, “Hey, Jazz! You want cheese or you going to be a monster and eat it plain?”
“Double cheese,” I yell back.
He mock-groans. “This is why you’ll never make weight.”
“You’re grilling pineapple, so I’m guessing that’s your meal tonight, Mr. Trim ‘n Fit,” I shoot back.
He flips me off with a spatula and winks. “For your girl, Jazz.”
I grab a beer from the cooler and angle toward Trinity’s group. I catch the tail end of her story: “—and then he tried to do a pull-up on the silk, and the entire rig came down. Right onto his head. I had to drive him to urgent care with a gash the size of a dime, and the first thing he did when they stitched it up was ask if he could fuck me before the anesthetic wore off.”
