Page 45 of On Thin Ice

“Bell, fuck, I—” I gasped, as pleasure coiled tight in my gut.

He sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks and taking me deeper, his hands stroking my flanks.

It was too much.

Too good.

Tooeverything.

I came with a strangled shout, my hips jerking helplessly as I spilled down his throat.

When I finally slumped back against the bed, my muscles felt liquified.

He pulled off with one last lazy lick up my length, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Better?” he asked, his voice rough.

I nodded weakly, too blissed out to form words.

Bell grinned and moved up my body to kiss me, a slow and dirty slide of our tongues that let me taste myself on his tongue. I clung to him, already half-hard again. At my age, I’d assumed those days were well behind me, but my body responded to him in ways I hadn’t known was possible.

He laughed against my mouth. “Sadly, we don’t have time for another round. Team’s meeting downstairs in”—he twisted to check his phone on the nightstand and winced—“fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck,” I groaned, the real world crashing back in with jarring suddenness. The bubble of intimacy we’d created popped, and reality seeped in.

“Come on, lazybones.” He rolled off me and slapped my stomach lightly, making me yelp. “Shower. Now.”

We stumbled into the bathroom together, bodies colliding in the narrow doorway, laughter bouncing off the walls as we rushed through what had to be the world’s fastest shower. Steam filled the room almost instantly, fogging the mirror and wrapping us in a warm cloud that smelled of Bell’s expensive body wash and minty shampoo. Our elbows knocked in the confined stall, water sluicing over bodies marked from the night before—a bruise here, a scratch there, evidence of what we’d shared.

By the time we made it downstairs, the lobby was buzzing with the chaos associated with getting a professional hockey team out the door. The space echoed with loud, boisterous voices, the sound of bags being dropped onto trollies, and the repeatedpingof elevator doors opening and closing.

Bell nudged me with his elbow as we crossed the marble floor, his grin easy and relaxed, like he hadn’t spent the night—and this morning—absolutely destroying me.

I tried to match his energy, but my skin felt too tight and hot. The collar of my shirt chafed against marks I couldn’t see but knew were there. I was sure our teammates could tell what Bell and I had done, could read it in my walk, my posture, the flush I couldn’t seem to control. Like I had “Property of Stryker Bell” stamped across my forehead in dark ink.

I adjusted my grip on my coffee cup I was clutching like a fucking life raft, the cardboard sleeve rough beneath my fingers, the liquid inside scalding through the paper.

My heart pounded in my ears, thethud thud thuddrowning out the ambient noise of the lobby. Were people staring? Were they whispering? Could they smell sex on me despite the shower and my cologne? My paranoia spiraled, each glance from one of the guys or hotel staff feeling like an accusation.

I caught a few looks—quick glances, sidelong stares—and immediately dropped my gaze to the floor, my stomach flipping. The pattern of the marble blurred beneath me, spots dancing in my vision.

Beside me, Bell was already moving away without a backward glance, as though the intimacy we’d shared had evaporated the moment we stepped into public view.

I watched, helpless, as he crossed the lobby and found Miller, bumping their shoulders together and grinning like they didn’t have a goddamn care in the world. The casual ease of their interaction made something sour curl in my gut, bands of tension wrapping around my ribs, making each breath shorter than the last.

I hated the way he smiled at Miller.

Hated that he looked so normal when I felt like I was bleeding out inside.

I hated even more that none of this was Bell’s fault. I was the idiot who wanted more than he could give. Who’d agreed this was “just physical” but was already drowning in feelings I had no right to have.

“Morning, sunshine.”

The sudden intrusion of a voice beside me yanked me from my spiral of self-pity. I crushed the cup in my grip, coffee surging through the lid’s drinking hole and splattering across my knuckles.

“Fuck!” I hissed, jerking my hand, scalding liquid burning my skin.

I gritted my teeth and transferred the mangled cup to my other hand, wiping my palm roughly on my pants, leaving a dark smear behind.

Viggy smirked at me, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “You’re jumpy this morning.”

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