Page 101 of Across the Boards

“Come for me,” I demand against her sensitive flesh. “Now, Elliot.”

She breaks while crying my name, her back arching off the bed, fingers dug tight into my hair, as she comes hard against my mouth. I don’t let up, drawing out her pleasure until she’s pushing weakly at my head, oversensitive and spent.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand as I move up beside her, pulling her boneless body against mine. Her skin is damp with sweat, her heartbeat gradually slowing where her chest presses against me.

“Better?” I ask, my voice rough, as I brush damp strands of hair from her face.

Her hum is low and satisfied. “God yes.” She tilts her face up to kiss me, hesitating for a moment before I close the gap, letting her taste what I just devoured. “Much better.”

I tuck her under my arm, pulling her to curl back into me. “I think I just unlocked a kink I didn’t know I had.” I whisper into her hair. I should feel shame, but all I want is to do it again.

I feel laughter vibrate through her at my confession.

“Glad I could help with your sexual awakening, Carter.”

“Worth it,” I say, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Though I think you might have re-injured my jaw.”

She turns in my arms, examining the bruise forming along my jawline with gentle fingers. “Battle scars,” she says softly. “From defending my honor like some caveman.”

“Your caveman,” I correct, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“My caveman,” she agrees, settling back against me with a contented sigh.

As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, I think about the game, about Jason’s face when he saw her in my jersey, about the fight that finally made me feel like I was doing something to balance the scales for the pain he caused her.

But mostly I think about this moment—Elliot Waltman in my arms, trust given and received, the beginning of something I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit.

It was worth the wait. Worth the bruises. Worth everything.

And I’m never letting her go.

25

ELLIOT

There are moments in life that divide everything into “before” and “after.” For me, one such moment was watching my new almost-boyfriend punch my ex-husband in the face at a live hockey game while I sat in the family section wearing said almost-boyfriend’s jersey.

Not exactly how I’d planned my re-entry into the hockey world.

The morning after I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon wafting through my townhouse. For one disoriented moment, I panic—who’s in my kitchen?—before remembering last night.

Last night. When Brody Carter had systematically dismantled every doubt, every insecurity, every hesitation I’d built up after Jason. When he’d shown me with exquisite attention exactly how wrong my ex-husband had been about me, about my desires, about my capacity for pleasure.

It’s just past seven, but knowing Brody he’s probably been up since 6:00 AM doing whatever morning routine professional athletes consider essential to survival.

After a quick brush of teeth and hair, I throw on a robe and pad to the kitchen. The sight that greets me is both domestic and jarring—Brody Carter, bruised jaw and all, expertly flipping pancakes while my coffee maker hums in the background. He’s shirtless and wearing jeans, feet bare, hair still damp from a shower.

“Morning,” he says, spotting me in the doorway. “Hope pancakes are okay. I found blueberries in your fridge that were about a day away from becoming a science experiment.”

“Pancakes are perfect,” I manage, still processing this tableau of domesticity. I slide onto a barstool, watching him work. “So... is this a regular feature of the Brody Carter experience? Breakfast after thoroughly ruining a woman for all other men?”

He nearly drops the spatula, his eyes flying to mine. A slow grin spreads across his face when he sees my smirk. “Only for the ones who make that particular sound. You know the one.” He mimics a breathy little gasp that makes my cheeks burn.

“I did not sound like that,” I protest, though the memory of exactly how vocal I’d been makes me squirm slightly.

“Oh, you absolutely did.” He slides a perfect blueberry pancake onto a plate. “Multiple times. I was keeping count.”

“How very thorough of you.”

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