His jaw drops as I drag him forward under the warm July sunshine. I’ve never heard a grown man complain as much as Charlie does about getting a locker, getting fitted for skates, and worst yet—waiting in line to do both. He finally tones it down when I remind him, the longer he’s in line the less time he’ll be on the ice. He mutters, “Maybe I can pay a few of these kids to jump ahead of us in line.”
I’m hysterically laughing until he asks the attendant for size twelve skates. Then I want to swallow my tongue.Right. That’s why he feels so good…
I’m snapped back from my fantasies about the size of Charlie’s cock when he’s handed men’s skates that have a toe pick.Disdainfully, he holds them in between us and reminds me, “I thought I wasn’t going to be humiliated.”
“You’ll be fine, Charlie. You shouldn’t get hurt,” I remind him. “Besides, this is iconic. If you had been an average eighteen-year-old, this might have been something you did on a Friday night.”
“I wasn’t average. Most Friday nights, I was buried in a swamp with a reed stuck in my mouth trying to breathe without being spotted. Once every few hours, I shifted over to the mud-covered sandwich they tossed into that pisshole.”
I lace my custom skates and get to my feet with a flourish. “See? This is already better than that.”
He stands. Wobbles. Manages to find his balance long enough to shoot me a “I’ll get you back for this” look. His voice is filled with trepidation. “Debatable.”
I take his hand and start to move when I realize he isn’t coming with me. “Rink’s this way.”
“Right. Just preparing.”
“We’re just going to walk to the rink,” I encourage him.
“Slowly, right?”
“As slow as you need to.”
His breath shudders out and he mutters under his breath, “Okay. I’ve shot people for a living. I can handle this.”
Just then, a mother with her two young children walk by us. She urges them forward with a harried smile in my direction–as if she, too, understands grown men are just children with longerlegs. I don’t bring them to Charlie’s attention. I just reassure him, “I totally believe in you.”
Inch by inch, we somehow manage to make it to the ice. He gives the kids shoving past him glares that would refreeze the ice if it were melting as they skate onto the ice like they’d been born on the North Pole. Then he places a single skate on the ice.
Deciding now’s a great time for me to get onto the ice while Charlie gets his bearings, I glide out onto the ice. I do a quick spin and approach my grumbly bear. Grinning with the freedom of being back on skates, I spread my arms wide. “Relax. It’s fun.”
He clings to the wall as if he lets it go, it’s going to explode. “It’s not fun.”
“Just let go and have fun, Charlie,” I urge him.
The second he does, he makes a sound I’ve never heard from a human unless they’re being attacked by a rabid raccoon. “Rhos—RHOSWEN! I can’t…Make it st…Noo!” His skates slide out from beneath. He lands on his rear, with his legs sprawled in a perfect V. “This was torture devised by women to rip apart men’s groin muscles.”
“Actually,the ancient Scandinavians invented ice skating so they could travel over frozen lakes and waterways for hunting or to reach other villages.”
Charlie’s momentarily distracted by that information. I lodge my shoulder beneath his armpit and force him to glide. Mentally, I’m already calling my masseuse for a double session. The thought of that has a happy sigh escaping my lips.
“You must be a sadist if you enjoy it.”
“You’d enjoy it too if you’d stop overthinking.”
“I’m done with overthinking. I’m just trying to remain upright.”
“You’re doing amazing,” I lie badly.
Charlie glances down at me. Mistake. Big one. His right foot glides but his left toe pick gets caught. His right arm windmills like he’s trying to herd a bunch of wayward sheep.
It takes everything in me to prevent him from going down. With a huff, I mutter, “Double session. Deep tissue.”
His hand whips around, grabbing onto my outside arm. The force almost takes us both down. Dramatically, he moans, “If I don’t make it out alive, distribute my possessions wisely, coo.”
“Charlie, this isn’t going to kill you,” I say exasperated. That’s when I notice he’s grinning. Actually enjoying himself. He’s bitching because he’s a man who hates failing at something new, not beating himself up over anything he shared with me last week.
I beam up at him before tugging his head down to kiss him with a thoroughness that has him breathless. When I let him up for air, he manages, “What’s our goal with the skating? If it’s to incapacitate me, you’re likely ahead of schedule.”
