Page 4 of Expose on the Ice

I bite my lip, my hips pushing involuntarily into my hand.

I slip a finger inside, imagining it is Knox’s. I definitely have my brain fooled, because my hand is soaked in seconds, my body responding to the thought of him in a way I just can’t deny.

Damn it, Lily, get it together…

Although I chide myself, I can’t stop. Here I am, about to embark on a crucial assignment, trying to investigate every inch of Knox’s life, and all I can think about is him looking right at me.

Exposing me.

The thought consumes me, fueling my touch, faster, more urgent. My finger is his cock, and the hand cupping and squeezing my breast tight is his, until my hips arch off the bed.

I can’t stop. And I really don’t want to.

I close my eyes, giving in to the sensation. My hand works faster. I bite my lip to stifle my moans, but the sounds escape anyway, muffled and desperate.

I cry out, my body shaking and heart pounding as pleasure comes in waves, my fingers still moving lazily. As I slowly float back down to earth, I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon.

Feeling deliciously spent, exhaustion engulfs me a moment later.

CHAPTER 2

CARTER

The harsh lights of Baxter Arena cast long shadows across the empty ice as I glide back and forth. My muscles burn, protesting the grueling workout I’ve been putting them through for the past three hours. But I ignore the pain, pushing myself harder.

One more drill. One more shot. One more chance to get it right.

The puck sails from my stick, ricocheting off the crossbar with a resounding ping. I curse under my breath as I skate after it, my frustration mounting as I prepare for another attempt.

I’m here long after my teammates have showered and gone home, long after Coach Carson has given me that look – equal parts concern and resignation – before turning off the lights in his office and going home, the hardest-working guy in the building being outworked.

They don’t understand.

Can’t understand.

I’m not just chasing perfection. I’m running from the demons that nip at my heels the moment I step off the ice. Once, hockey had been pure joy – when the ice beneath my blades had feltlike freedom instead of a prison of my creation – but now, those memories seem to belong to someone else.

For me, there’s only the endless pursuit of better, faster, stronger.

And running away from my past.

From Sarah.

I fire off another shot, this one finding its mark in the top corner of the net. But even as the puck hits twine, I feel nothing, already moving to retrieve it and go again. One excellent shot isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

Next rep, I gather speed, weaving through imaginary defenders as I approach the goal at the other end of the ice. The puck dances on my stick, an extension of my will. I can feel the perfect shot building in my muscles, in my bones.

As I wind up to take the shot, time seems to slow. For a moment, I’m that kid again, playing on the frozen pond behind my house, with nothing but the joy of the game in my heart.

The puck leaves my stick, and I know instantly it’s off: a fraction too high, a hair too wide. The resounding crash as it smashes into the boards echoes through the empty arena, a mocking reminder of my failure.

But it isn’t just that sound that fills my ears.

Screeching tires. Shattering glass. A scream that still haunts my dreams.

My legs give out, and I stumble across the ice, barely managing to brace myself against the boards. Memories crash over me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

Sarah.

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