“I… I can’t believe I…” Harlow’s speechless.
I grind up her body to lie next to her again on my side. “You don’t need to say anything. I think I found my new favorite hobby. You’re beautiful when you let go.” I brush a few strands of her hair behind her ear.
Her hand moves to touch my cock, but I’m quick to grab her wrist.
“I should…” she begins.
Returning the favor is not going to fucking happen. She deserves to enjoy her step.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll survive,” I downplay it.
She seems unconvinced but still slants her lips to the side. “For tonight, anyways.”
I nod with a closed-mouth smile and reach to turn off the light before we cuddle into one another.
* * *
Harlow stepsone foot in front of her and then the next.
“Uhm, you should try skating instead of stepping. It’s the whole point of being on the ice,” I tease her.
We slept in, had yogurt, then I decided to take her to the ice rink since the Spinners are away for a game. But ice-skating Harlow is, well… a disaster. She has not one ounce of skating talent.
“Listen, hockey player, I’m ensuring I don’t fall on my ass because a bruise would ruin my bikini lines,” she responds.
I circle around her body. “I gave you figure skating skates. It would probably be worse if I gave you hockey ones.”
“There are two different types of skates?” Her voice rises.
I shake my head, disappointed. “Did you not study this for your hockey exam that I still have yet to give?”
Her wide smile forms quickly. “Kidding. I know there’s a difference.”
I take hold of her hands as I skate backwards and tug her along. “The first ten minutes are the hardest, and then your body gets the hang of it,” I promise.
“Until I need to brake to stop,” she deadpans.
I chuckle. “Damn, this plan for our daytime activity really was not my best idea.”
She ignores watching the ice and stares at me. “Nah, I kind of enjoy seeing you in your territory. You’re like a child at a toy store.”
“Keep talking to me,” I encourage.
Lines form on her forehead. “And say what? It’s cold, and there are girls here skating around in t-shirts and gloves, which makes no sense.”
“It makes sense. The temperature actually isn’t that cold when you move around.”
“Tell that to someone who believes you. So tell me, how many hours would you be on the ice when you played?”
“On average, 12 hours of training per week on the ice and a hell of a lot of hours in the gym,” I explain.
Harlow hums a sound. “Do you miss the scuffles with other players?”
I laugh. “Truthfully, yes. It’s good to get out some aggression, and I was right defense, so I had to defend my turf,” I attempt to make her smile.
She chortles in response. “I can’t imagine you being aggressive. You’re kind of soft.”
My eyes grow into saucers. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m only soft around you and a baby, a true exception. If you only knew how I was with other people and in the bedr—” I stall, because I just don’t want to put any pressure on her.
