“This isn’t how I pictured it,” he says, voice low and gruff.
I don’t have any witty retorts. I can barely breathe.
Slowly, he leans in, holding my gaze until the very last second. Our first kiss in Vegas was spontaneous and frantic in all the best ways. But this is slow and intentional. His full lips press against mine, warm and soft. He lingers there, neither of us moving. We’re breathing each other in, letting the kiss build almost of its own volition.
Warmth spreads through my chest and then pools low in my stomach. Ever so gently Travis’s lips pry mine apart. He hums and slants his mouth to better cover mine. The hand at my neck pulls me closer to him.
I’m not sure who initiates it, but suddenly his tongue is in my mouth and I’m stroking it with mine. He tastes like scotch—hints of sex and longing.
I reach up and rest my hand on his chest. He makes another deep hum as I grip his shirt in my fist. I need him closer, and I need more.
He pulls back before I’m ready. I’m spinning, lightheaded. When I open my eyes, I see that desire mirrored back at me.
Travis lets out a long breath and then reaches for his drink. Only after he’s taken a sip does he speak.
“Better?” he asks, low and husky.
“Yes.”
I’m in so much trouble.
The following Monday I come downstairs in the morning to find Travis in his full hockey uniform—pads, helmet, even skates.
“What are you doing?” I ask, coming up short on the last step. He had back-to-back away games and just got home last night.
The time apart did not help me stop thinking about him. We haven’t spoken about the kiss, but it’s consumed my thoughts.
“Testing a theory. You haven’t seen me in my uniform before.” He struts across the room, which is not as smooth as he thinks. I’ve seen Travis skate and I’ve seen him in his uniform. In fact, I’ve seen him in various dress attire in all kinds of scenarios: before a hockey game (suits, wow), warming up before games, playing games, sitting on the bench during a game, half-dressed (intermission), after doing press in compression shirts, and even a few ab shots that some camera person caught when he lifted his shirt up to wipe his face mid-game. (Don’t judge my video history. I married him, I figured I should do some research. And no, I won’t be sharing this with Travis. I’ll take it to my grave. Kinsley has already agreed to delete all my browser history if I die first. And vice versa.)
The point is skates are for, well, skating, not the march, hobble side to side thing he’s doing across the runner in the hallway. Does he still look good? Of course. Pretending not to find my husband attractive has become our favorite sport. The thing is, it’s actually a lot easier to resist him when it feels like a game.
“Is it working? Are you having any urges?” He stops and strikes a pose like he’s shooting an imaginary puck.
God he’s cute. I bite back on my molars to stop a smile from forming.
“I have to go to practice,” I say like this is just another day. Living with Travis, it kind of is.
“Have a good day, babe!”
Tuesday night when I get home, Travis is watching gymnastics on the TV in the living room. Correction: He’s watching me do gymnastics on the TV.
“Hey,” he says over his shoulder.
“How did you find this?” I skip the obvious question of why he’s watching it in the first place because I’m certain it has something to do with getting me to beg him to kiss me again. Is the ploy to pretend he’s into gymnastics? Whatever the plan, I don’t have the heart to tell him this routine in particular still haunts me. I was so close to medaling in the all-around and then two deductions on floor cost me.
“I’m watching them in chronological order.”
Well, that’s…something.
“I’m going to order some food. Do you want anything?” I ask, leaving him to it and going into the kitchen for water.
He follows me. “I already got dinner for you.”
Sure enough, on the counter are several takeout containers from my favorite places. His proud smile is all the answer I need to know it was intentional.
“Are you dressed up as a proud, doting husband tonight?” I ask. Each day feels like a costume party.
“Always, but nah, I knew you were staying late at the gym, and I figured you’d be starving. I didn’t know what you’d be craving.”
