Page 110 of Bleacher Report
And I tried. God, I tried.
But somehow, Hunter’s already under my skin, lodged into my heart, my every thought, wormed his way into places I didn’t even know were vulnerable.
My voice barely makes it out, but it’s enough.
"You’re more than I gave you credit for when we first met," I murmur, the words thick with everything I’m not ready to say yet.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted you to see.”
His gaze locks on mine, so intense it pins me in place.
Then he grabs my waist with his other hand—just enough pressure to steal my breath—and he’s kissing me.
Hard, searing, wrecking. Like he’s trying to undo both of us in a single breath.
Every thought flees, every fear dissolves, until there’s nothing left but the two of us and the heat blazing between us. Urgent, raw, stealing the breath from my lungs.
He cages me against the wall, the chill of the cinder block doing nothing to compete with the wildfire heat of his chest against mine.
I gasp against his mouth as he presses into me, all hard muscle and male heat, every part of him demanding more.
My mind spins—somewhere betweenyes yes yesandwhat the hell are we doing?—because we’re standing in the middle of the Hawkeyes' locker room, and someone could walk in at any second.
The thought has panic flickering at the edges of my mind.
But then Hunter groans low in his throat, grinding against me, his hands frantic at the hem of my sweatshirt, and everything rational inside me collapses.
He’s not worried. Not even a little.
He's laser-focused—like nothing else exists except for me.
And God help me, I don't want to exist anywhere but here with him, either.
He tugs the sweatshirt, T-shirt, and sports bra up over my head all at once, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking.
His mouth is at my throat, nipping, sucking, dragging heat across my skin as his body presses even tighter against me, my body responding instantly. Heat pools low in my belly.
"You’re driving me crazy, Collins," he rasps, his voice wrecked.
I fumble with the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, and he rips it off one-handed, baring the thick cut of his shoulders, the muscles shifting under inked skin. Next go our shoes, one by one—leggings and pants next until my cotton panties and his boxer briefs are the only two things left.
The sharp smell of ice, rubber, and sweat fills the air—the scent of hockey and male and everything that’s so achingly Hunter.
He kisses me again, slower this time, dragging his teeth over my bottom lip, teasing it into his mouth.
It’s a claiming.
A slow, devastating claiming.
And I don't want it to ever end.
His hands slide down my ribs, palming my hips.
"Tell me this is against the rules. One word from you will make me stop," he rasps against my mouth, his forehead resting on mine.
The air between us buzzes, so charged I can barely breathe.
I shake my head, my fingers diving into the waistband of his joggers.
