Page 37 of On the Edge of Scandal

He shouts a few ugly slurs at her, but he’s backing away as he says it, and bumps into a group of Finns.Where were you guys when there was about to be a fight, huh?It doesn’t matter, though, not anymore. Brody’s weaving through them with a hand to his cheek, and Bronwyn’s standing right in front of me, looking pale and shaken.

I go to her, but don’t touch her no matter how bad I want to. “Baby, what do you need? Can I touch you?”

She stares at me unblinking for a few seconds. She might be in shock, because that would be pretty damn traumatic for anyone. That’s when her face crumples and she starts to cry. Crying and nodding at the same time. “Ash, please.”

No one with half a heart could say not to that, so I take her in my arms, hold her tight, rub her back, stroke her hair. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone. You took care of him. You were so crazy strong and badass. Seeing you punch that guy might be better than a gold medal.”

Some of the Finns come over and ask in their perfect English if there’s anything they can do to help. I look to Bronwyn, and she shakes her head, so I thank them and they’re on their way.

“We should go to the clinic, okay? Make sure your hand is just going to be bruised and isn’t broken, because that guy must have a skull like granite.”

She sniffles a laugh, and I put my arm around her to head over to the village ER. We’ve got a perfectly reasonable excuse to be affectionate in public right now, and I’m going to take advantage to comfort the most incredible woman I know.

Epilogue

Three Months Later

Bronwyn

Graduation was yesterday and I dropped my parents off at the airport on the way here. Well, not on the way, because driving from Chestnut Hill to Logan to Carlisle is more like a boomerang shape. But now, here I am, pulling into the driveway of Ash’s home.

It’s a house that has become pleasantly familiar, that lets me breathe easier as soon as it comes into sight. Small and modest and brown to blend into the woods, I’m sure no one else would find it an enchanting place, but I do. This house and the ice rink are probably my favorite places on earth.

I park my car next to Ash’s and grab my bag out of the trunk, swing it over my shoulder. Not that I need a lot since I already keep a substantial amount of stuff at Ash’s, but still.

The front door is open, which is a cute thing he always does, and funny since I have a key anyway, but I like that he does it? Like it’s a way he tells me he’s paying attention, he knows I’m coming, and he doesn’t even want to have to wait for me to dig my key out of my bag to unlock the door before he can see me. Silly, maybe, but it makes me smile every time.

I drop my stuff by the door and then go in search of him, finding him in the kitchen. With a cake of all things. When he sees me, he looks up from where he’s using a flat metal thinger to smooth out the icing, looking so very pleased with himself.

“Hey, B. How was traffic?”

I come around the counter and nudge my head under his arm so I can wrap my arms around him. He plants a kiss on the top of my head while he continues to perfect his frosting.

“Not bad. Tuesday before rush hour. And what have you been up to?”

I eye the cake, which is not exactly a work of art. It’s kind of crooked, and despite his best efforts the frosting still has sticky-outy bits, but he uses the skinny spatula thing to point to his masterpiece. “This. I felt bad I couldn’t take you out for your graduation, so I made you a cake.”

Which is the literal sweetest. He came to the ceremony yesterday and had the excuse of a few of us from the SIG team getting our diplomas to be there. Because he does that stuff. He’ll be at Harvard’s ceremony and BU’s, too. Wonderful man. He’d met my parents, but as my coach, not as my boyfriend, because we’re still keeping this very much on the down low. Have agreed to until the fall when I’ll be moving into a new apartment in Brighton and will have been at my job for a few months, and—fingers crossed—on Boston’s women’s pro hockey team. After that, we’ll still get some side eye and gossip, but there won’t be a goddamn thing anyone can do if we’re doing our jobs, which we will be.

“Thank you. I love it.” I go up on my tiptoes and take his face in my hands, give him a kiss.

“You haven’t even tasted it. What if it’s gross?”

“I don’t care.” I kiss him again, and when I do, it’s not a cutesy thing. It’s a kiss of theI-have-missed-you-so-much-in-the-past-several-days-of-graduation-and-family-insanity-and-I-want-to-be-back-in-your-arms-and-yeah-in-your-pantsvariety. I laugh against his mouth when I hear the clatter of him tossing the spatula on the counter, and then his hands are on me, all over me. Apparently, the feeling is mutual.

His mouth is hot and demanding on mine, and he tastes unusually sweet, like he’s been sneaking bits of frosting that got on his fingers while he’s been doing his baking. I can’t say I’d be sorry to lick the frosting off his fingers, either, but I also don’t know that I have the patience for that. Mostly I want to be as close to him as humanly possible, have him literally inside me.

Since his surgery at the end of the season, we’ve had to be a little, uh, creative when it comes to the having of the sex, which when it’s not causing him pain is more of a fun exploration than anything else.How can I make you feel good? How about this? What about this?We’ve been able to try stuff I wouldn’t necessarily have thought of, and it’s made things profanely intimate.

I break off the making out and try to catch my breath, but it’s hard. As is his erection pressing into my belly, which I want to stroke until his head drops back and then guide him inside me. Without a word, I tip my head up to look into those glass-green eyes and he looks back, a smile curling the corner of his mouth before he tows me over to the dining table where he sits and tells me to strip. Can do.

He studies me, arms crossed over his midsection, his pants doing nothing to hide how badly he wants me. Makes me stand there for minutes, his eyes raking over my body until I’m practically bouncing on my toes with my need for him. I’m poised and ready, my muscles primed for when he finally gives the word.

It’s not so much a word as a very obvious sign. He levers out of the chair, strips his own clothes with an economy of movement and not nearly as much caution as he’s been using. He’s feeling better, more confident in his body, and it makes me so happy. I can’t imagine being so out of sorts, out of touch with my body that’s served me so well. It would be a betrayal, but he’s got way more patience than I do. Which he’s exhibiting now by leisurely stroking himself while sitting in the straight-backed chair. Jerk.

Right as I’m about to strut the few steps over and plant myself in his lap, he crooks a finger at me, and I can finally feel him the way I’ve been aching to for days. Skin against skin, the hair on his chest brushing against my nipples, making them hard and sensitive, and his hands on my bare ass. He uses his grip to bring me in closer until my legs are spread wide around his hips and my clit is pressed up against his cock. Jesus. I put my palms on his shoulders just as he sculpts a hand around my breast and dips his head to lick around my nipple before taking it in his mouth and suckling.

Which of course only makes me rock against him harder, more insistently, because I want himnow.My wetness has made where we’re joined slick, and I can’t get enough of the sensation the rubbing provides. Not quite as good as the penetration I’m craving, but I could get off this way just the same. Want to. But he lets go of my nipple, chastises me with a nip to the side of my neck, and a “Uh-uh. Not so fast, baby.”

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