Page 120 of Lighting the Lamp
Beau pulls his jersey over his head and into place, movements unhurried, and his possessive gaze never wavers. There’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach flip all over again. A possessive, almost daring gleam, like he’s letting them have their fun for now, but the second he’s done here, he’ll have words.
Bower catches the look and smirks. “Better head out before lover boy decides the warm-up can wait. Can’t have him getting distracted.”
Me? Distracting? Ha. Like my legs will even work to get me out of here. Still, I force a step back, then another, clutching the hem of the jersey so tight my knuckles ache. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire, my heart still racing from Beau’s eyes following me the entire way to the door. And when I finally turn into the tunnel again, I swear I can still hear the guys’ jeers chasing me and Beau’s low voice cutting through it all, pitched too quiet for anyone but me:Don’t go far.
The sound shivers down my spine, sharper than the cold air spilling in from the rink. It isn’t just what he said, it’s the way he said it. It’s the certainty threaded through his voice, like he branded me with three words no one else even heard. The noise is still echoing behind the door, but it’s his voice that follows me into the tunnel, coiled tight under my skin, impossible to shake.
The chirping is still going when the locker room door swings shut behind me, muffled laughter and taunts fading into the hum of the tunnel. I press a hand to my chest, trying to contain the stampede inside it, willing my pulse to slow, but I don’t get the chance because the door swings open again.
Beau steps out like the air here belongs to him now, the hard lines of his game jersey stretching over shoulders that look even broader up close. His gloves dangle from one hand, his damp hair curls just slightly at his temple, and his jaw is tight enough to crack. But it’s his eyes—fixed on me, burning hot enough to make my breath falter—that pin me in place.
He doesn’t say a word at first, closing the distance between us in three long, unhurried strides. Each one makes the air between us tighten until my back hits the wall, and I realize I’ve been moving without meaning to. The cold of the concrete seeps through my borrowed jersey, but every inch of me facing him feels fever-hot, like my skin is attuned to him and nothing else. The force of him this close steals the air from my lungs, like he’s crowding out everything but the two of us. My breath stuttersbecause part of me feels like I should push back or resist, but the bigger part aches for more.
His gaze drops to the front of my jersey, and I already know what he is thinking. Cole’s words from earlier ring in my ears about me wearing the wrong name and number stitched across my back. But a Hendrix jersey is a Hendrix jersey, right?
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, voice low and edged, like he’s speaking more to himself than to me.
“It’s not—” I start, but then his hand is there, brushing over the fabric like he’s deciding whether to rip it off me. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a jolt through me so fast my knees nearly buckle. His fingers flex barely like he’s fighting the urge to grip harder.
“You’re wearinghisjersey?” The quietness of his tone makes it worse. No volume or bite, just focus that hits like a body check. “Out of all the nights, you thought that was a good idea?”
“This is Cooper’s last game,” I manage to say, but it’s breathless, my voice betraying me. It sounds more like a confession than a defense. “Besides, it’s not like that.”
He steps closer, erasing the last inch of air, and the crisp chill of the rink disappears under the heat radiating from him. Something electric—raw and buzzing with energy—crackles between us, coiling tighter with every heartbeat. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow, deliberate breath, and for a heartbeat, I can see the effort it takes for him not to just take what he wants. It’s not just jealousy in his eyes; it’s sharp and unyielding possession, like he’s already decided this ends with me wearing his name and number.
“I don’t know what this is between us,” he says, voice low and husky, “but I’m done letting you pretend that it’s nothing.”
The words slam into me low and hard, stealing the ground out from under me. My throat tightens, my heart ricochets against my ribcage, and all I can do is stare into the fire in hiseyes. The barely leashed force in the way his chest lifts and falls, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands curl loosely at his sides like he’s restraining himself by inches.
“Beau…” I try for steady, but it comes out as a shaky and unsure whisper.
“Take it off,” he says, voice low and deliberate.
“Excuse me?” My pulse spikes, feet planting on instinct.
“The jersey. Take it off.”
For a second, I think about refusing and holding my ground just to prove I can. But his stare doesn’t waver, not even a flicker, and my fingers betray me, finding the hem and tugging it upward.
The cool air hits my overheated skin as I pull the borrowed jersey over my head. His gaze follows the movement, dark and unhurried, lingering like he has every right to watch. My breath stutters, and my bare arms prickle under the weight of it. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw now, his lips pressing together just enough to make me think he’s biting back words.
From practically out of thin air, he produces his own deep green jersey with bold lettering and the number 30. He steps in close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. His breath is steady, too steady, like it’s the only thing keeping him from acting on something sharper. He holds it out, arm steady.
“Put it on,” he murmurs.
The fabric slides over me, soft from wear, smelling faintly of him. It hangs a little looser than the last one, but it feels different. Not borrowed or neutral, but his. The weight of it settles over me like a brand, a declaration no one else will see but I will feel every second. My pulse hammers at the thought, and the part that terrifies me is how much I want it to carry him on my skin.
Before I can find something to say, his hand comes up to cradle my jaw. Beau’s thumb traces along my cheek, and for asplit second, he just looks at me, eyes dark, mouth set, the heat in his gaze almost too much. Then he breaks.
The kiss slams into me, not just hungry, but edged with something fierce and unrestrained. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening at my jaw just enough to make my pulse spike. My hands fist in the front of his jersey, dragging him closer, until the only world I know is the press of his mouth, the solid weight of his body, and the fire curling low and hot in my stomach. His other hand anchors at my hip, fingers splayed, but there’s an iron control in the way he holds me close, but not crushing me to him like he’s giving me this much and no more, even if it’s killing him. It’s too much, too fast, too consuming, and I can feel the exact second he remembers where we are.
He tears himself back so suddenly that my lips tingle, my lungs strain for air, and my pulse still tears through me like I’ve just stepped off the ice. His breathing is heavier now, hitching for two beats before he forces it steady again, jaw tightening like he’s locking the rest of it away.
“Proud of yourself?” I manage, narrowing my eyes at the smug curve of his mouth.
“Absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. Then, softer, with that dangerous certainty that makes my chest ache, his gaze flicks to the jersey draped over me before cutting back to my eyes. “You’re mine, and now they all know it.”
The words hit low, deeper than I want to admit, rattling something loose inside me. I should shove back, tell him he doesn’t get to just declare that I belong to him, but the truth presses harder than the protest. I want to be his so badly it terrifies me. My pulse stutters hard, caught between fear and the kind of surrender that feels like a freefall. Because once I let myself believe him, let his words sink into bone, there’s no undoing it.
