Page 108 of Body Check

I pat his back in mock-sympathy. “You want me to go with you this time? Or am I off the hook?”

“You’resonot off the hook.”

Warm lips find my collarbone, pressing soft kisses there until Jackson is rolling my nipple between his fingers and my panties are being shoved to the side. He dips his fingers into my wet heat, then drags them to my clit, which he rubs in tight, little circles.

“Mikey—” He grinds out, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Is he watching TV?”

I nod, already wrapping my hand around Jackson’s hard-on. “Are you sure you feel okay?”

“Never been better, sweetheart.”

It’s his standard answer when I ask about his headaches. They come and they go, as they always have, but the researchers at Boston University, along with Dr. Mebowitz, are convinced that it will be many years—maybe decades—before Jackson experiences anything worse than his current symptoms. It’s not a perfect diagnosis and I’d be lying if I said there haven’t been nights when the stress of those blastedwhat-ifshave worn my confidence down.

But Jackson is adamant that he’s doing better than he ever has. When the season grows busier, it’s easy for me to see that his anxiety rises along with it—and that anxiety, as we’ve learned, is another indicator of CTE. When the panic rises, I’m right there with him to ride out the storm.

And when he pulls off another win for his hockey family, like he did a month ago, I know thathebelieves that everything has worked out as it’s fated to be.

Trust me to fall in love with a man who will tear a guy a new asshole on the ice and then, hours later, spend the evening with me on the balcony as we search for shooting stars.

My breath catches in my throat as Jackson eases me onto my stomach and fits an arm between me and the bed. He urges me up on my knees, tipping my butt in the air, and then his cock is pressing into me.

I moan his name into a pillow, my hands fisting the sheets.

His thrusts are slow, languid, like he has all the time in the world to make love to me. Big, masculine hands follow the line of my spine, and, God, it feels so good. Jackson reads me like I’m a language only he understands.

When he fists my hair, I arch my back and beg for more.

When the pump of his hips picks up speed, I sink downward and meet him thrust for thrust.

His damp chest connects with my damp back, and he returns his arm to fold over my belly. I feel every drag of his cock. Every drag, every pump, every time he can’t help himself from kissing my shoulders as he brings us both to the edge.

“Fuck,” he groans behind me.

With every ounce of energy that I have, I lift onto my hands and twist to stare at him over one glistening shoulder. He’s every inch the man I fell in love with nineteen years ago, but so much more after everything we’ve been through together.

I flip my hand over, palm up.

Jackson’s dark gaze drags off my face to my waiting hand, and he shifts his weight to settle a palm over mine. The angle changes, his hips pistoning faster and faster, and I burst apart the second he circles my hips and presses down on my clit.

He pumps once more, twice, and then his rugged face twists with pleasure as he empties himself inside me. “Damn,” he breathes out, holding up his weight so he doesn’t squash me. “I could go for some pancakes.”

“Well, the Cupisin the house,” I tease, wriggling my butt under him, “I suppose I could cook pancakes in celebration instead of heading to South Street and our favorite diner.”

“You’re a goddess.”

“Damn right I am. Don’t you forget it.”

Jackson’s mouth finds mine. The kiss is familiar now, a high that reminds me of home and safety and love but is no less exciting than the very first one he gave me so long ago. I pull back and brush my finger over the crooked slope of his nose and then trace the white scar on his left cheek.

“Do you have any regrets?” I ask softly.

“For the season?”

“For life.”

“None,” he says, rolling me onto my back so he can stretch out alongside me. “I love you, Holly Belliveaux Carter. I love Stanley, our firstborn, and I love Mikey. He reminds me so much of you—always so inquisitive.”

“He’s already in skates, Jackson. I’m pretty sure that he’s got future hockey star written all over him.”

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