He cups my jaw, tilting my head just enough to kiss me deeper. My fingers slide into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer. The warmth of him wraps around me, heavy and intoxicating.
When his tongue brushes mine, a soft whimper slips out of me.
His breath hitches. “Come here.”
I shift onto his lap without thinking, straddling him, thighs bracketing his. He steadies me with both hands at my hips, the touch firm but not forceful. My hands slide up the planes of his chest, feeling heat through cotton.
His lips trail down my throat, slow and hot.
“Declan,” I whisper, fingers tightening in his hair.
He groans—a low, wrecked sound—and kisses me hard again, sinking a hand under the hem of my shirt, fingertips brushing my skin. Heat cracks open in my belly.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I don’t,” I breathe. “I want you.”
“Then we’re not stopping.”
His hands help lift my shirt. I pull it over my head, tossing it aside. His hoodie comes next. I drag it up his chest, my knuckles grazing the hard planes of his stomach, the V of muscle disappearing into his jeans.
When the hoodie is gone, I stop.
There’s a bruise on his side, right over his ribs—a mottled map of blue and purple where a puck or a stick caught him hard on Friday.
I reach out, tracing the edge of it with my fingertips.
He flinches, just a little, his breath hissing in.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “Part of the job.”
“You take hits for a living,” I whisper, looking up at him.
“I stop them,” he corrects softly. “So they don’t get past me.”
The words land heavy between us. It’s not just about hockey.
I kiss the bruise. Gently.
His hands tighten on my hips. “Talia.”
I pull back and kiss his mouth. Hard.
The air between us crackles as the rest of our clothes fall away.
By the time his mouth finds my collarbone, my body feels electric. My legs slide around his waist, pulling him closer. Hisfingers trace up my ribs, slow and exploring, like he’s learning me by heart.
“Do you have—” I start, breathless.
He shifts his weight, reaching for his back pocket. He pulls out a wallet, sliding a foil packet from the inside fold.
He sets it on the nightstand.
His eyes meet mine, dark and hungry.
“I didn’t plan this,” he says, voice rough. “But I’m not losing my mind so much I forget that.”
I should be embarrassed. I’m not. I’m molten.
