Page 72 of Hockey Wife

She moved her hand over his pectorals, down his torso, then quickly around his hip until … damn. She cupped that very fine ass.

She drew away quickly. “If that’s too much …”

“I can handle it.”

A challenge? She placed her hand back on his ass and squeezed, filling her palm with one perfect Banks bun. No slouch, he moved his hand around and coasted it over the rise of her ass. Then down.

“How’s that?”

As test squeezing went, it was perfect. Her body inched closer and stretched up—whether it was a move on her part or his hand pulling her flush, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Her breasts were now smashed against his chest, their hips were touching, and she desperately wanted his fingers to work their way into the snug recess between her thighs.

It was unlikely they’d be feeling each other up to this degree in front of his family, but it was good to know the limits. For science.

“Hungry?” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her lips.

“Starving.”

“Dylan, we’re going to start without you!” Trish’s voice broke the spell.

He pulled his hand away, she returned the favor, and they took a step back.

Then exhaled as one.

He found his voice first. “Let’s eat.”

22

His mom and Connie called it an early night, and though it was close to ten, he was feeling like maybe he should do that, too. He had cooked dinner while Georgia kept everyone entertained with stories about the exploits that got her Page Six attention. Like the time she set off a fire alarm in a church. Or when she “borrowed” a police horse during Lollapalooza.

His sisters would be here tomorrow, so he had less than twenty-four hours to re-frame his game face for them. He was a master of passivity, but his sisters knew him a little too well. They’d see how he was around Georgia and would recognize that he might be pretending to fake it for his gran’s sake, but that his body language with his wife screamed his attraction to her.

They were both in the kitchen now, tidying up in that domestic shorthand of established couples. Dishes stowed, leftovers stored, and countertops wiped.

“Thanks for today, for being so cool with Mom and Gran. I know it’s not easy to be on show like that.”

“Are you kidding? Plenty of stories to mine for your entertainment, sir.” She gave a mock bow.

“You don’t have to entertain us. This is your life we’re talking about.”

“It’s okay, Big Guy.” She rubbed her hands together. “Next hurdle—sleeping together!”

“Hurdle?” This was going to be awkward/difficult/excruciating for her?

She folded her arms, cocked her hip. “You need to get some rest for the game tomorrow. I don’t want to interfere with that. I can sleep on the floor if that’s easier.”

“The bed is big enough. Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a few.”

Let her have time to brush her teeth. Cleanse her face. Change into one of those wispy camisole things and get under the covers.

He futzed about, making sure everything was tidy, though nothing really needed doing. Not nerves, just giving her space. Stalling for time, he headed to the laundry room. The slight tang of the cat litter tickled his nostrils, and he looked down at Cheddar, who took a couple of steps toward him.

He hunkered down and because he was a sucker, he rubbed a hand over his arching back. “Sorry about this, dummy. If it were up to me, you’d have the run of the place.”

A plaintive mewl was his response. Banks closed the door and headed to the first-floor restroom to wash his hands and take a good look at himself in the mirror.

That kiss meant nothing. All these light touches in front of his gran? Nothing. When Georgia groped his ass in the laundry room? Nothing. The ring … He turned his own band, marveling at how strange it didn’t feel on his finger. Like it belonged there.

He had to stay focused on his game, and not just the one on the ice. So what if he had to sleep in the same bed as his wife? It was king-sized, and while he usually took up most of it, not tonight.

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