Page 79 of Left-Hand Larceny
Wraps his arms around me in all the bulky gear. I collapse into it.
“Sæt stelpa mín,” he presses the words to the top of my head. “Please tell me you know that’s not true.”
I nod against his chest. “My dad told me to go back to school and tell those punks they chose me. His parents got stuck with him.”
His pads are bulky, cutting into the soft skin of my neck and arms. I don’t care. I breathe him in—his clean scent, the chill of the rink, the warmth of his kindness.
And then my head tips back.
And our mouths meet.
It’s not planned. Not careful. It just happens. His lips are warm and sure. His breath hitches. He starts to pull back.
“Wait,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Sadie—”
“Don’t go.”
He hesitates and I lean in again. Ready for his mouth on mine, his lips coaxing mine open. He moves. I almost take it for rejection, the way he ducks my mouth, except then I’m moving too. He lifts me gently—so gently—onto the top bar of the net. The metal crossbar is cold against the backs of my thighs. And I don’t know if I should let go of his shirt so I can grip it for balance, or hold on tighter to Ragnar.
Ragnar who pushes my thighs wide and steps between my legs. Cradles my face in one hand, the other cupping my hip. And kisses me like it’s the only language he’s ever spoken.
And I let go of the fear. Just for tonight.
His mouth brushes mine like he’s asking permission, not taking it. Soft. Careful. Full of something I don’t have words for. And I think—I could cry from the gentleness of it.
It’s not hungry or rough or urgent. Not like before. It’s slow. Reverent. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
My fingers are on the lapels of his jacket—he still hasn’t taken it off—gripping the fabric like I’m anchoring myself. I slide them up the sides of his throat, looping them around the back of his neck. Anything to bring him closer. My chest is doing that strange, expanding stretch. Like it’s too much. Like it’s finally enough.
We stop to suck in air and his thumb traces the corner of my mouth. I shiver.
He kisses me again, a little deeper this time, and I lean into it. Into him.
The weight of his hands on my thighs. The press of his chest between my knees. The sigh he lets out like kissing me is something he’s been holding in for months.
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
Lost in the give and take. I’ve kissed plenty of people before. Usually it’s fun, tongues fighting for dominance as we pass oxygen back and forth between our parched lungs. This isn’t like that. It’s not a battle, or a war. It’s a dance. I arch my back, trying to press even closer.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine. We’re both panting a little, and the cold air makes my lips tingle.
I open my eyes. His are still closed. His hands are still on me, too. Steady and warm, grounding me like I might float away.
“You don’t have to hold me like I’ll break.”
His voice comes back low. “I’m not afraid you’ll break.”
I wait.
He opens his eyes.
“I’m afraid I might.”
Something inside me twists and softens all at once.
I lift my hand to his cheek. His beard is rough, but warm. Real. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself be still. Just a girl in goalie pads. And a boy who makes her feel like she’s worth holding onto.
