I park on the far edge of the rink, engine off for as long as I can stand it. I’ll turn it back on when I get too cold, but I’m bundled up pretty well.
The rink glows under the lights, players sliding and shouting. I crack my window just enough to hear the laughter. With everyone covered in coats and hats, I’m not positive, but I think I accurately pick out who everyone is, based on Dylan’s descriptions.
It’s too cold to keep the window cracked or the car off, so I crank it back up and turn the heat on high. I rest my hands on the top of the steering wheel and lean my chin against them. I want to be out there in the thick of it, which is so unlike me that I hardly know what to think.Dylan makes me want to have fun, to not worry about being so proper all day, every day. To be carefree…to be by his side.
Dylan and Tully are a cohesive unit. It’s easy to see that the Whitman family is athletic. The other team does a good job, but they can’t keep up with Dylan’s family. When Dylan passes the ball to Tully and he scores the final point, they break out in loud cheers and back slaps. Dylan’s laugh carries, and my heart skips just hearing him. I watch as everyone eventually walks off the rink, and after the crowd has started clearing out a little, I text Dylan.
Look to your right.
I see him pull out his phone, and I wonder if anyone else can see his excitement, because I can from here. He finds me and says something to the others. They walk off, and he waits a few minutes before walking toward me.
When he slides in beside me, we stare at each other for a beat.
“Hey, you,” he says.
“Hey.”
We grin and I pull out. Dylan ducks in his seat when we pass someone he knows. The Airbnb’s such a short drive that we barely have time to talk before I’m pulling in the driveway.
The door shuts. And I don’t know who makes the first move, but in the next second, my back is to the wall, and his mouth is on mine. His hands are under my coat, then my sweater, until they find skin. I yank his coat off and then his jersey, my palms sliding over warm muscle.
“Missed you so much,” he says against my neck as he lifts me.
My legs lock around his waist as he carries me to the bedroom and sets me down.
We undress quickly, boots clattering to the floor, our clothes piling up. He pauses when we’re naked, his eyes locked on mine.
“We can take a bath, catch up face-to-face,” he says.
I pull his mouth down on mine. “After.”
He laughs against my lips, and then we’re urgent. His stubble scrapes my skin, his grip tight on my hips. I arch against him, my nails raking across his back when he lifts me up and slides me down on him. Our movements are frenzied, every thrust intense and urgent. And then he lays me on the bed and moves slower, deeper, like he’s mapping me.
It isn’t long before I come with his name muffled against his mouth. He follows, shuddering, his forehead to mine.
After, we’re tangled in cool sheets, his fingers tracing my hip. Snow falls outside. The room smells like us.
“Does this house even have a bathtub?” he asks.
“I don’t think so. And the shower is really small.”
“Should we try it out anyway?” He grins, leaning over to kiss me.
“Absolutely. And then you’ll have your way with me all night long.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grins again.
I wrap my hands around his neck and yelp when he picks me up, my body flopping over his shoulder. He slaps my backside and I slap his, and we both cackle.
Everything feels right in the world when we’re together.
We might not have known each other long, but my heart hasn’t gotten that memo. It’s racing ahead at breakneck speed, all in.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ROTISSERIE
DYLAN
