He set his own glass down, slow and deliberate. Took a step closer. "By the fact that you were standing in the back of that room wearing my name and I'd just spent seventy-two hours hunting down a criminal, playing the biggest game of my career, and not kissing you." Another step. "And I was tired of not kissing you."
"You kissed me in the hallway."
"Not enough." His hand came up to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "Not nearly enough."
"How much would be enough?"
"Let's find out."
He kissed her then—not the desperate claiming kiss from the hallway, but something slower, deeper. His mouth moved against hers like he was learning her, cataloging what made her lean into him, what made her fingers tighten in his jacket. His taste was already familiar, already addicting, and when his tongue swept against hers she made a small sound that he swallowed with a hum of satisfaction. His other hand found her hip, thumb tracing slow circles where the jersey ended and her jeans began, the friction of denim and cotton and skin underneath making her acutely aware of every point of contact between them.
He smiled—that real, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face—and kissed her again. Deeper this time, his tongue against hers, his hand sliding up her ribs. She arched into the touch and felt him inhale sharply.
"You smell like hockey," she murmured against his mouth.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
His hands grew bolder, ghosting up her ribs beneath the jersey, and she wanted that warmth, that rough skin all over her body with a fierceness that made her head light.
"You must be hungry," he said against her mouth. "You didn't eat anything during the game."
"Spying on me, D'Arcy?"
"I could barely focus on the puck. I kept looking to see if you were watching, wishing I was there to hear what you thought."
She hummed and rose on tiptoes to kiss his neck. He threw his head back with a groan.
"We can slow down," he said, voice rough. "I didn't mean to bring you here for this. Not only this."
"Maybe I broughtyouhere for this."
He smiled but shook his head. "I don't want to rush this. "I plan on savoring you, Libby Bennet-Cross."
Libby pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. His face was flushed, his pupils blown wide. "Then stop talking about it," she whispered, "and take me to the bedroom, Mr. D'Arcy."
She had a split second to see the answering joy light his face before her feet left the ground and his mouth came down hot on hers. Seconds later, her back sank into the softness of his duvet.
But she wasn't looking at the view.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it, let it fall to the floor—Liam D'Arcy, who probably had never left clothes on the floor in his life, just dropped a thousand-dollar shirt like it didn't matter.
His hands found the hem of the jersey. "Can I?"
"Yes."
He pulled it over her head slowly, carefully, like it was something precious. She was left in her bra and jeans, feeling suddenly exposed under his gaze.
He was looking at her like he'd been given something he hadn't known he was allowed to want. The self-consciousness faded.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You don't?—"
"I'm not saying it to be polite." His hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing the jut of her hipbones. "I've been thinking it since Portland when you fell asleep on my shoulder and I realized I was completely fucked."
"Trouble?"
