Page 7 of The Pucking Date
“What?” I toss over my shoulder, circling back with a flick of my hair.
He skates closer, gaze hot and amused. “You move like a figure skater.”
“That’s because I was one,” I say, gliding to the edge of my arc. I push off into a crossover, one foot slicing clean over the other, then extend my leg behind me, hips turning as I rise into a camel spin—arms outstretched, body elongated, the world blurring as I gather speed.
He whistles low, still watching me. “Why don’t you skate anymore?”
I let the spin come to a halt naturally, lowering my leg with control and gliding out of it in a long, easy line. “I had a growth spurt in high school,” I say, coasting to a stop beside him. “Got too tall for the lifts.”
His eyes trail down, then back up, lingering. “Too tall for the lifts, maybe. But damn, Novak, you fill out just fine.” Something in his voice fires every nerve ending in my body. I glance away, hiding the smile. “Explains the balance.” He grins. “And the way you drive me crazy.”
His eyes are raking over me, heavy and charged, and I swallow, my heart hammering in my ribcage. “And the grace,” I try to lighten the mood, skating a wide arc.
His mouth curves. “Keep moving like that, darlin’, and I’m gonna forget how hard I’m trying not to touch you.”
“You’re about to.”
Before he can respond, the speakers hum to life, a low, thumping bass vibrating through the rink. I blink, surprised.
Lizzo. “2 Be Loved.”
I laugh, then lean into it. Let the rhythm melt into my muscles. Hips swaying. Shoulders loose. I slide backward in sinuous, teasing curves, arms lifting lazily above my head before rolling them down the side of my neck.
His gaze locks on like I’ve flipped a switch. It’s not a striptease, but it might as well be, judging by the way he’s watching me. I playfully skate a tight circle, matching the beat. My fingers trail along the edge of my jaw, then dip slowly to brush the curve of my waist. Just for fun. Just for him. Just to see if I can make him roar.
I don’t need to look to feel the shift in the air. The snap of tension between us, humming electric. His voice is a snarl—low, rough, barely human. “Just when I thought I couldn’t burn for you more than I already do…you go and do this.”
The words are a vibration at the base of my spine.
I pivot. Skate straight toward him, the music a leash pulling me closer. “Show me how much you burn.”
Then I dart, fast and fluid, spinning through the center of the rink. My lungs pull sharp, freezing air that doesn’t cool anything.
But he doesn’t chase. He’s pacing me instead. Long, stalking strides—easy, lethal—cutting through the ice. He savors the hunt, allowing the space between us. Little by little, he’s closing in.
And I feel it. Every inch of him. A current. A pull. Like his need is magnetic, and I’m already halfway gone. My skin is buzzing. My core clenches tight.
The heat of him behind me is intense, unwavering. I can feel his eyes dragging down my back. He’s mentally stripping me bare, probably deciding where he’ll put his hands first. Where he’ll make me come apart.
A man with a plan and patience, slow only because he wants me to feel it coming.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
My pulse slams. I want to slow down. I want to be caught. Because being wanted like this, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’ll satisfy him, it’s unraveling me.
Then the song shifts, heavier bass now. Tiësto’s “The Business” kicks in, dark and electric. Built for the pull. Built for the kind of need that simmers between almost and too late.
Finn strides forward smoothly, his eyes locked on mine. I could swear we’re the only two people in the world. It turns into a game.
I skate a wide arc. He mirrors me. I cut across the center. He shadows, a breath behind.
He’s not trying to catch me.
He’s just watching me fall.
Every glance he throws my way is a promise. Every glide, every deliberate shift of his body says,“I see you. I want you. And I’m not letting you get away.”
