Page 77 of Damaged

“I played hockey at Dartmouth. Just for two years. I quit the team when Aquarius took off.”

“I was wondering if you were ever an athlete.”

James breaks away with a graceful stride. He glides across the ice. He gestures for me to join him. It takes me a minute toput one foot in front of the other, to skate, but it comes back to me as easily as riding a bike.

I skate to him, and he catches me in his arms and gives me a spin. I shriek and start to laugh. He holds on to my arm, and the two of us spin for a minute, laughing. I used to think James’s heart was as solid and cold as this ice rink. But under the surface, he’s human. He’s kind and gentle.

And sure, maybe he’s a little dangerous still. But not to me.

James pulls me in so I’m pressed against him. He looks me in the eye, and my breath freezes in my throat.

“My… You’re fucking pretty,” he says in almost a growl.

We’re both distracted as a young girl flies past us with a dusting of ice and does a layback.

“Do something about it,” I challenge.

We lock eyes, and my heart freezes. My insides tangle. I know what’s coming, and I try to freeze this frame. My feelings are too much to ignore. It’s now that I’m forced to admit that I’m not just horny. It’s not just lust.

It was never that simple, as much as I wanted it to be.

I do like him.

James moves his lips down to mine and kisses me ever so gently, and the feeling that erupts isn’t between my legs so much as in my heart.

He kisses me once. Twice. It could last forever. I wouldn’t mind if we stayed here until we froze and turned to statues as solid as the ice under our skates.

When he’s done, he pulls back and smiles. But I’m not done. I move in and kiss him. Hard.

A young kid heckles us in a Bronx accent. “Oh, get a room, you two!”

James and I erupt into laughter. There was something about the prepubescent tone of his barb that sounded ridiculous.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” James says.

“Me neither.”

“Maybe the kid is right.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. I’m biting my lip teasingly.

“I knew I should’ve just bought this whole place out for the evening.”

“Would you ruin all these kids’ evenings by flexing the power of your American Express Black Card?”

“Would show them right for cock-blocking me. They can go bowling.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He kisses me again. It’s not butterflies that I’m feeling. That’s too soft and fluttery to describe this feeling—these are fireworks.

Roaring. Bursting. Bright.

Even when he pulls away again, they don’t stop exploding.

“How about we get a room?” he asks.

“Yours or mine?” I’m intoxicated with how much effort it takes to say a few words. My breath is light. Hard to hold down for long enough to talk.

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