"You're not going to break anything."
"But—"
"And you're not going to break me." I stepped closer. "You think I haven't thought about this? About you, here, in my bed?"
He blinked. "You have?"
"Every night for two weeks. Ever since that first kiss." I touched one of his eyebrows. "I know how big you are. Lucky for me. More of you. I've dreamed of a man like you."
"What if I'm too rough? What if I get carried away and—"
"What if what? You take up space?" I moved even closer, backing him against the doorframe. "What if you're exactly as much as you are? What if I like that?"
He was breathing harder, hands hovering near my waist like he wasn't sure he could touch.
"Touch me. You're not going to break me," I said quietly. "I don't want you like this."
"You sure?"
"Dead sure."
"Because once we cross this threshold—" He gestured at the space between hallway and bedroom. "There's no going back. You'll have officially let Thunder Bay's most chaotic beast into your personal space. Your bed. That's a big commitment."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. "You realize you've already been in my personal space, right? My workshop, apartment, and my entire life since that first conversation at The Drop."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. "Because this is your bedroom. Where you sleep. Where you—where you do bedroom things."
"Bedroom things?"
"Don't make me spell it out."
"I think I need you to spell it out."
He groaned, tipping his head back against the doorframe. "Where you touch yourself thinking about people. Where you have dreams. Fuck it, Rhett—probably where you watch porn on a laptop computer."
The honesty in his voice sent electric sensations throughout my body. I wanted the man.
I wanted to take him in with my arms and legs and whatever else I could use—fingertips, teeth, and my damn sense of humor. He ducked his head, and I edged closer, touching the hem of his sweater. I didn't ask permission when I slid my fingers under the fabric, finding bare skin, warm and soft with a scatter of rough hairs.
He sucked in a breath and let me push the sweater up, then shrugged out of it. His t-shirt followed, and then it was only skin, scars, and muscle. He didn't flex or pose—he stood there, letting me see him and take inventory. There was nothing delicate about his build.
I stepped back to look—really look. He didn't hide his shape. He didn't apologize for the size of his chest or how his stomach softened above his belt. He looked at me like he expected disappointment, like he'd built a fortress of self-deprecation and couldn't imagine anyone wanting in.
I pushed him onto the bed. He landed with a whump, mattress groaning under the sudden impact. "See?" he said, grinning. "Destruction."
I climbed on top of him, knees straddling his hips, and kissed him until the world shrank to a single point of contact, tongues, teeth, and the scrape of my stubble.
I grinned like an idiot into the kiss, my hands clumsy on his chest. The sensations of touching Hog landed somewhere between petting a pit bull and reading Braille stamped onto a concrete wall.
He was flushed. His mouth was red and shiny, and in that instant, it was impossible to imagine him on skates—he seemed so much more real here, off the ice, in my bed.
"Should I—fuck, I don't know the protocol here."
He fumbled with his jeans button. "Do I just—?"
