Page 63 of Hearts on Ice
“You can have it back,” he murmured.
The joke died somewhere in my throat when he kissed me again—slow this time, the smell of dinner still in the air between us. I kissed him back, setting the fork aside.
The skillet clicked softly as I pushed it onto a cool burner behind us, forgotten.
We didn’t move far—just enough that my back met the counter’s edge, his hands braced on either side of me, heat rolling off him in waves.
“Drew,” he murmured against my mouth, voice low, rough, “tell me to stop.”
“Not a chance,” I said, tugging him closer until our hips met.
Heat rolled between us, unhurried.
“Bedroom?” he asked, his breath catching as my hand slid up his chest.
Chapter 26
Miguel
Bedroom.
My heart kicked.
He said it like a question and a promise at the same time. Looked wrecked in the best way—pupils blown, lips already kissed red—and proud, like he’d just made a decision he wasn’t taking back.
“Yeah,” I said, barely managing the word. “Okay.”
He took my hand, lacing our fingers together–his palm warm and a little damp. I couldn’t tell if that was nerves or heat or both. We started walking toward the hall.
Every step felt like walking out onto thin ice and daring it to hold. Every tiny sound felt loud because we were both breathing like something huge was about to happen and neither of us wanted to spook it.
In his room, he clicked on the lamp by the bed instead of the overhead light. The glow was soft and low, amber across his sheets, across his face. He let go of my hand and scrubbed the back of his neck like he needed a second to reset his brain.
That hit me almost harder than the kiss. This wasn’t some guy trying to pull me into bed like it was a game. This was Drew—steady, controlled, always measured—standing there in his own bedroom, trying to catch his breath because he wanted me.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
He looked up.
“You don’t have to overthink it,” I told him. “Just… feel it.”
Something in his shoulders loosened.
He let out a slow exhale. “That ‘just feel it’ thing? I’m better at systems and tape—adjustments, structure. Feelings… I’m rusty.”
“Then good thing you’ve got me,” I said.
That got me a real smile. Small, crooked. The kind that made his eyes crease at the edges. God, that smile. I felt it in places I didn’t even have names for.
I stepped in first.
My hands found his hoodie. “Can I?”
He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah.”
I lifted the hem. He raised his arms, and I pulled it up slowly, letting the fabric drag over his stomach, his chest, his arms. He wasn’t cut like some gym rat trying to impress Instagram. He was built like a man who carried his life on his back and refused to drop it—strong chest, thick shoulders, scars he didn’t bother to hide. One, a faint silver, traced low along his ribs, another thin line nicked his shoulder. I wanted to mouth both, memorize both, ask about both—just not yet.
“Carajo,” I whispered, and I didn’t even mean to say it out loud.
