Page 31 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

I’m torn between hoping he asks those questions and hoping he doesn’t. Part of me wants to explore the answers, especially because I’m not entirely sure about the second one, and I wonder if saying it out loud will help me figure it out.

But I also don’t want to ruin this gorgeous, perfect evening by bringing up the ghosts of my ex-fiancé and his family and my subsequent flight to Arcadian Falls to bury myself, burrowing into my pain, insulating myself from the outside world so I won’t feel anything like that ever again.

I guess … I guess I’m ready to emerge from the chrysalis I created at long last. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but it feels like the right time.

“Too bad we don’t have firewood here,” I murmur, gazing at the fire ring, the charred remains of someone else’s fire scattered to the edges and half-buried in the sand. “It seems like it’d be a nice place for it.”

Troy squints at the water. “It would be,” he agrees, “but being out on the canoe at night isn’t the safest idea. There aren’t a lot of people coming by on their motor boats on this end of the lake, but we have seen some.”

I nod, understanding. “Still.”

He smiles. “Yeah.”

I wander around the space a bit, aware of Troy standing with his hands in his pockets as he watches me. Eventually I make my way in front of him and stop, meeting his eyes. “What now?”

One of his eyebrows hitches up, the corner of his mouth matching it. “What would you like to do now?” When I don’t answer right away, he holds out a hand, and I place mine in his. He uses his grip on me to gently tug me closer until I’m standing right in front of him. Reaching up with his free hand, he brushes the hair out of my face, his eyes examining mine. His fingers trail down my cheek to my jaw, and I close my eyes at the caress. “Anna,” he whispers, his voice gruff, and I open my eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

My stomach clenches at the question, a mixture of nerves and excitement, but a wave of warmth follows right on its heels. Swallowing hard, I dip my chin in a nod. “Okay.”

His lips quirk in a small smile, and he brings his lips slowly to mine. It’s more of a glancing contact at first, his lips pressing against one corner of my mouth, the other, and then, finally, he kisses me for real. His full lips press to mine, and it feels amazing. His lips are soft, supple; his kiss the exact balance of firm and soft. Exactly what I want—what I need—from him, but so mind-boggling at the same time. Like—how is this even happening? To me? And with him?

But then all worry and overthinking flits away, leaving me here in this moment with Troy.

His hand moves down, resting on the side of my neck, his fingers curling under my hair, and he moves a fraction of an inch closer, adjusting the angle and pressing his lips to mine again. My hands rise almost of their own accord, and I clutch his shirt, the soft cotton balled in my hands. Pressing up on my toes, I try to get closer, not wanting this kiss to end.

He wraps his other arm around my waist, hitching me up and holding me against him at the same time, his lips parting and his tongue slicking along my lower lip. I gasp at the contact, opening for him, and his tongue seeks out mine.

Dear god, this is the hottest kiss I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve only known this man for a day.

I let out a whimper of protest when he ends the kiss. He just throws me a self-satisfied smirk, takes my hand, and leads me over to the driftwood log. He settles in front of it, using it as a backrest, then guides me onto his lap, straddling him.

I settle on his thighs, highly conscious of the hard muscles there, his warmth through our layers of clothes, the fact that I want to map his chest with my hands.

He caresses my legs, his fingers slipping just under the hem of my linen shorts. “Is this okay?” he asks in that same husky whisper he used to ask if he could kiss me.

“Yes,” I answer on a shaky exhale. “More than okay,” I make myself add, because I need to let him know I’m into this, right?

Jared always complained that I wasn’t expressive enough. That he couldn’t tell whether I liked the things he did to me in the bedroom. Of course, sometimes I didn’t particularly enjoy things—not that they felt bad, just that they didn’t feel especially good, either. And when I tried to coax him into doing the things that did feel good, he’d get annoyed with me for telling him what to do. Once we got in a big fight about it, and I told him I wasn’t going to fake an orgasm just to stroke his ego, and he got really pissed off.

In any case, I like Troy kissing me. It does feel good, and I want to make sure he knows, even if I don’t make a big production of moaning and groaning.

One of his hands moves up to my hip, his other sliding up my back, and he encourages me closer, tilting me toward him so he can kiss me again.

He starts with a fairly chaste, closed-mouth kiss again. But when I bring my hands up to rest on his pecs, my fingers curling into the muscles involuntarily, he tilts his head and parts my lips with his.

Some part of my brain is detached from the experience, narrating it for me. We’re making out with a guy! A hot guy with muscles! Who we barely know! In a secluded cove! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!

Then he grips low on my hips, almost my butt, and hitches me forward, bringing my center in contact with the hard ridge in his lap, and I let out a moan at the contact at the same time he groans like he’s never felt anything so good in his life and that voice in my brain falls silent again. I’m fully and totally present, existing entirely as sensation—his lips on mine, the slick slide of his tongue, his fingers digging into my flesh, my fingers digging into the firm muscles of his chest, his hardness everywhere.

I’m lost. Swept away in sensation, no concept of time or space or anything other than this, right here, right now.

And then something vibrates against my inner thigh.

It’s so sudden that I jump in shock, pulling back from our kiss, looking around wildly, trying to figure out what just happened.

Troy sighs, lifting his hips and reaching into his pocket. I let out a squeak that’s part surprise, part arousal because it just pushes him even more firmly against my molten center.

God, I want this man.

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