Page 53 of Daddies on Ice
Jake’s lips melt against mine, and the world tilts.
For a heartbeat I freeze, stunned by the sudden heat of him pressed so close.
Then the shock burns into something hotter, something reckless that coils low in my belly. His mouth is firm, sure of himself and his abilities.
My back pushes into the door under his force, and I grip the handle to steady myself.
The scent of him fills the space between us.
His lips move against mine with practiced ease, and even though I know this is a performance, my pulse doesn’t seem to care. It pounds in my ears, drowning out reason.
I should shove him away. I should remind him this is pretend, for show, not something he gets to enjoy.
But his mouth slants against mine and a soft sound slips from my throat before I can stop it.
His hand brushes against my hip, not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of it sparks over my skin.
The kiss deepens. His tongue teases at my lips, insistent, and when I part them, he takes full advantage.
The taste of him floods me.
Warm, intoxicating, wrong in every way, yet I don’t turn away.
Instead, I lean into him, my fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only anchor in this rush of sensation.
When he finally pulls back, it’s slow, deliberate, like he wants me to know he’s the one ending it.
His lips linger a second longer than they should, and when he breaks away, I’m left breathless, my heart racing.
Jake’s eyes glitter with heat, with something unreadable that makes my knees weak.
His voice drops low, a whisper that curls against my ear.
“That,” he murmurs, “is how we make it real.”
My back stays against the hotel door long after Jake walks away.
The wood is cool through my shoulder blades, and the quiet around me unreal considering the riot in my chest.
Heat still sits on my lips, a ghost of pressure that keeps replaying in flashes—the push of his mouth, the steady hand braced by my head, the controlled way he angled in like he’d rehearsed it.
No cameras. No audience. Just the two of us and that reckless sentence in my ear about making it look real.
Anger should be the loudest thing in my mind, but it jostles for space with something far less convenient: the low, insistent hum of want. That part makes me furious at myself.
I’m the one who puts out fires for this team.
With a deep, shaky breath, I turn and fumble with my key card before finally getting it to work, and rush inside my room.
The mirror over the dresser shows me just how flustered Jake got me. My cheeks are flushed a hot pink, and my lips are swollen.
Oh god, pretending to be Jake’s girlfriend is going to be hell.
My fingers lift to my lips and hover there like I’m checking to see if the heat is real.
It is.
The memory of Jake’s breath at my ear drags a shiver through me. He’d been so sure, so unapologetic, that even the part of me ready to swing on him took a full second to show up.
