Page 64 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

The sight of Rory in my jersey is my undoing. I'm off the ice, but part of me is still pressed against that glass where she claimed me as hers, as publicly as possible.

Right in front of her dad.

Right in front of the Montreal Blizzard.

In front of the entire world.

It’s like she’s hand-delivered certainty straight to my chest. There is no doubt in her mind that she wants to be mine. It was the perfect way to announce it.

Now we’re here, in the hotel room, where the world falls away into the hum of the busy city below us. My hands are in her hair, and I can still smell the lingering scent of the arena on us. Every press of her lips is like she's reiterating that bold statement she made with my name across her back.

Kissing her is living, breathing proof that she's all in, one hundred percent committed to us. This isn't just some fling—it's Rory carving out space in her life that's shaped just like me.

The feeling that courses through me—a mix of adrenaline and something far deeper that I can’t quite put my finger on—tells me I’m in for a ride of shit I’m not used to. Commitment isn’t my forte; it never has been, but I’m already in that space when it comes to her. It's in how she holds on to me, her fingertips urgent against the back of my neck. It’s in the silent whispers of promises when we pull away to catch our breath.

Each time she looks at me, I'm reminded of the stands, of the declaration she didn't have to scream because she said it all in a jersey with my name. She's got my back, not just in the stands, not just in this hotel room, but everywhere, every day.

She’s mine.

“Don’t ever take this jersey off,” I ground out against her lips as I pin her against the wall. “You look so much fuckin’ better in it than I do.”

I hear Rory chuckle. Her fingers tangle tighter into my hair, and damn, if that doesn't send another surge of desire coursing through me, I don’t know what will. In this space, in this quiet corner of the world, I want this woman with an intensity that borders on ferocity.

Then, the realization hits.

I’ve fallen hard and fast, with no safety net, red flags, or warning siren blaring. It's a headfirst dive into something profound, and the absence of fear tells me this is the real deal.

I've descended past the surface, past the superficial into depths where the past is just that.

But now, I know I never want to climb back to that life where Rory isn't with me, in my arms, wearing my name, and making every minute count. How can you get better than this?

You can’t.

“You wanna take a shower?” she asks me because I didn’t take one after the game. I ran out like a bat out of hell to get to her. I didn’t say bye to anyone. I would’ve gone into the stands and risked being mobbed by fans and haters to get to her.

“There’s no point. You’ll need one later, and I’d rather take it with you.”

“Oh yeah?” Her fingers run down the back of my head. “Are you going to make me scream loud enough for the media outlets to hear us all the way downstairs?”

“Fuck no,” I growl out. “The last thing I need is a bunch of middle-aged assholes listening to you and getting a hard-on.”

Rory presses her lips to mine in a slow, soft kiss that reels me in for more. “Then when are you going to be inside me and claim me yourself?”

She doesn’t have to ask twice.

I tug at the waistband of her leggings and quickly help her out of them before she’s in my arms and pressed right back into the wall.

We’re a tornado of needy kisses and a promise of a future I couldn’t imagine in my wildest dreams. I’m not sure if she had it out with her father, but I don’t want those details until later.

I work my way out of my sweats, pull my cock out, and I’m entering her without any additional feedback. Rory’s moan fills my ears, and it’s heaven on Earth.

It’s everything.

I could get lost in this woman forever.

I’m going to marry this woman.

Peeling her off the wall, I make my way to the bed and fall with her in a heap. Rory spreads her legs for me, and I enter her again, thrusting deep and hard. She writhes under me, arching her back for me, and I sink further into oblivion of how perfect Rory is and how she fits me.

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