Before she can come up with a joke to deflect the sudden, overwhelming ache in her chest, he reaches over with his free hand and taps her knee, expression sliding back into familiar, deadpan territory.
“Don’t make it weird,” he says.
She snorts. “You’ve got my whole playbook memorized, huh?”
“Yup.” Garrett’s throat works as he swallows. “I want to keep seeing you. Only you,” he says. His voice is quieter now, tentative in a way she’s rarely heard it. “If you’re not already running for the hills.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she unbuckles her seatbelt and leans in, steadying herself with a hand on the console as she brushes her lips along the rough edge of his jaw. He smells like shower-warm skin and that woodsy cedar cologne she’s started associating with trouble, threaded with the lingering scent of eau de hockey.
“I’m not running,” she murmurs against his cheek, lips skimming the soft place beneath his ear. “Not unless you want to chase me.”
He turns and fastens his mouth to hers.
The kiss starts deep—no testing, no hesitation—just the warm, firm press of his lips parting hers and claiming space. Heat pours through her in a slow, consuming wave as his tongue brushes hers then slides deeper, coaxing her open, kissing her with a filthy, desperate hunger that has her melting into his mouth, chasing every languid stroke. She tries to shift closer, but the height difference is an immediate challenge; she’s stretched awkwardly over the console, rising on her knees, fingers curling around his neck for leverage.
Garrett makes a soft sound, and, without breaking the kiss, he snakes a hand around her waist, palm warm and sure. The world tilts as he hauls her up, guiding her across the console and into his lap. She lands against him with a bitten-off gasp, the hard press of him beneath her sending a hot rush straight between her legs.
Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into the crisp fabric of his suit as he takes her mouth again.
He tastes like mint cut with the faint bitterness of post-game coffee, something familiar and utterly male, and she can’t get enough. She parts her lips wider, inviting him deeper, taking more, wanting more, until breathing becomes secondary.
She shifts in his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, the angle changing everything. She swirls her hips, dragging herself over the thick, pulsing length beneath his slacks. His breath stutters against her lips, and she feels the firm pull of his arm tightening around her, holding her as though he can’t bear the idea of her slipping even an inch away. She does it again, slower this time, and the quiet, strangled noise he makes sends a sharp ripple of pleasure through her.
“Naomi,” he growls against her lips, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.
Her smile curves against his mouth. They’re both too far gone to care about the dim parking lot, about anyone who might wander by. It’s just the heat of his hands gripping her hips, the hard line of him under her.
When they finally break apart, it’s not clean. It’s ragged, with panting breaths brushing each other’s lips, mouths still so close they almost fall back into another kiss without meaning to. Naomi’s chest rises against his, her breasts flush to the firm lines of his torso, the contact sending a fresh wave of want through her so intense she has to bite back a sound.
“Too many clothes,” he pants, pressing his forehead to hers.
Her voice barely makes it out, breathless and pitched with need. “Hotel?”
Garrett doesn’t answer—he acts. He lifts her, guiding her backinto her seat with greedy hands that grip her waist, her ass, her thighs much longer than necessary. The moment her seatbelt clicks, he shifts into drive, jaw tight, breathing hard, looking every bit a man on the edge.
Naomi, breathless and aching, can’t stop smiling. She feels winded, lit from the inside out.
As the city lights slide past the windows, she can’t help herself—she talks. She talks because all the heat and nerves have turned into a fizzy, post-kiss high that has her practically vibrating. She tells him every moment of the game she loved, reenacting his epic glove save with dramatic flair.
Garrett doesn’t say much—just makes growly, sexy sounds of amusement, or shoots her a sideways look that feels like a touch. But he’s listening. Every word. Every ridiculous bit.
Somewhere between the arena and the hotel, the tension transforms, like two puzzle pieces clicking flush. Naomi feels it in the way his hand drifts to her thigh at a red light, her heart kicking up when he starts to draw slow, sensual circles with his long fingers.
By the time they step into the hotel elevator, Naomi is one spilled emotion away from doing a full body happy dance. She leans back against the mirrored wall, trying—and failing—to pretend she isn’t bursting at the seams.
“So,” she says casually, because she’s incapable of not poking the bear, “you probably need your rest. Big-boy hockey stuff tomorrow.”
Garrett doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even dignify her nonsense.
He steps into her space, grabs her hips, and pulls her up into a kiss that wipes out every coherent quip she has planned. It’s deep and immediate, his mouth hot and sure on hers, his body pressed fully to hers as though the ten seconds of elevator ride might kill him if he doesn’t touch her properly.
Her toes curl in her boots.
He breaks only enough to breathe against her mouthy. “Not a chance.”
Naomi’s heart flips, swells, downright sings. And when the elevator doors slide open, they step out hand in hand—his idea, she’s pretty sure, because he doesn’t let go.
EPILOGUE
