Page 44 of The Pucking Date
I stare at him. At the ridiculous calm in his face. The way he’s looking at me, knowing I’ll say yes.
His lips twitch, but there’s no cockiness. Only pure intent.
Being wanted like this is dizzying.
“Fine,” I breathe and back up.
“On three,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
I nod and bend my knees. My fingers shake.
He mirrors me. “One…”
The rink is too quiet. My pulse too loud.
“Two…”
I take one inhale, deep and shallow all at once.
“Three.”
I jump, not high, not clean, but enough. His hands catch my waist with the confidence of a man who’s never dropped anything precious in his life.
And suddenly I’m airborne, not just lifted, but liberated. For these stolen seconds, I’m not the coach’s daughter or the PR director or the woman afraid to want too much. I’m just Jessica, flying in the arms of a man who makes me believe in gravity-defying possibilities.
Suspended above the ice, every wall, every reason I ever had to keep him out, is turning to dust.
Time doesn’t stop. But it stretches.
One heartbeat. Two. Long enough to remember what it felt like before I learned to keep my feet on the ground, before I discovered that flying meant trusting someone to catch you. Long enough to forget why I stopped.
His eyes stay on mine, arms locked around me, holding me steady. The way he looks up at me, it’s not just desire. It’s devotion.
And it pulls me under.
Slowly—almost reverently—he lowers me. His body is still, pressed close, his hands wrapped around my waist. I land, but I’m not grounded. Not really. I feel breathless. Electric.
And just like that, I remember what my father said last year.
Don’t let him get close, Jess. He’ll ruin your future.
Maybe he was right.
But right now? I don’t care about my future. I care about the way Finn O’Reilly looks at me, like I’m already his. Like flying wasn’t the dangerous part.
Falling is.
And then I feel him.
Hard. Hot. Pushing into my hip. A filthy promise. Leaving no doubt about what he wants.
And for one dizzying second, I can’t move.
His breath warms my cheek, the only heat in a room made of ice, steel, and control. He leans in until his mouth hovers over mine, lips brushing soft. Barely there. A ghost of a kiss that sets my skin on fire.
“This was a good date,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough with satisfaction.
I blink, dazed. “This wasn’t a date.”
