"I know." I kiss down her jaw, her neck, that spot behind her ear that made her moan in London. "I know. I know."
Her head falls back, giving me access, and I take it. I taste every inch of exposed skin. My hands roam over the curves that have been tormenting me all night.
"We have to stop," she breathes.
"I know. But I don't want to stop."
"Someone could see."
She's right. We're on a terrace at a charity gala surrounded by hundreds of people. Especially her brothers and my team. Anyone could walk out here. I force myself to pull back, resting my forehead against hers. We're both breathing hard.
"This isn't over," I say.
"Emmett, please ..." she begs me.
"I meant what I said. I don't want anyone else."
Voices drift from inside and echo outside, someone's coming. We spring apart, Joelle smooths her dress, and I straighten my tie. By the time a couple stumbles onto the terrace, giggling and clearly looking for their own private moment, we're standing a respectable distance apart.
"We should go back in. Separately," Joelle says quietly.
I nod.
Jo hesitates, then leans up to press a quick kiss to my cheek. "Goodnight, Captain."
She slips back inside, leaving me alone with the city lights and the ghost of her lips on mine.
I'm so fucked.
28
JOELLE
Vegas is loud, bright, and overwhelming in the best way. The arena is packed with a sea of red. The teams showed up ready to make our lives difficult. But the Mavericks came to play, and right now, we're up by two with six minutes left in the third. I'm on the bench with Mike, Sarah, and David, watching the game unfold. My job tonight has been easy. A few minor tweaks, some tape jobs. Nothing major. Which means I've had way too much time to watch the ice.To watch him.
Emmett is a force out there. He's been relentless all night. Winning faceoffs. Setting up plays. Blocking shots. When he scores the team's fourth goal with three minutes left, the Mavericks’ bench erupts. Of course, I cheer for the team. Not just for him.
We haven't spoken, texted, or done anything since the gala a week ago. Guess I should be happy that he is respecting my boundaries, but I'm not. All I can think about is the way he kissed me on that terrace like I was air and he was drowning. Since I walked away and spent the rest of the night pretending my lips weren't still tingling, there’s been no texts, no late-night calls. Nothing. And I keep checking. I thought distance wouldhelp. I thought if we just ... stopped, whatever this is would fizzle out. Instead, it's worse.
Every time I see him at practice. Every time he skates past me on the bench. Every time our eyes accidentally meet across the room, it's like gasoline on a fire I can't put out.
The buzzer sounds. Game over. Mavericks win. Yes!
"We're going out." Collette appears in my hotel room doorway like a tornado in heels. She's already changed out of her work clothes into a tiny black dress that would give our brothers a heart attack.
"I'm tired," I lie.
"Bullshit. It's Vegas, Jo. The team won. Everyone's celebrating." She walks in without being invited, and starts rifling through my suitcase. "You're not sitting in this room alone watching TV."
"I like TV."
She ignores me and pulls out a red dress I forgot I packed. "This. Wear this."
"Lettie ..."
"Nope. Not hearing it." She throws the dress at me. "Shower. Change. We're meeting everyone in thirty minutes."
"Everyone?"
