My brain really should’ve kept that discovery to itself.
His mouth drags along my jaw, then lower to my throat, and I physically shiver. “Fuck,” he says softly against my skin.
I tilt my head automatically, giving him more access before I can stop myself. “Owen.”
“Tell me to stop.”
The callback nearly destroys me on the spot. Not because the words themselves are particularly filthy, but because he means them. Even now, half-hard against me and breathing hard, he’s still giving me an out.
I think that’s the exact moment my last functional defense mechanism quietly packs its bags and leaves the building.
Instead of stopping him, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
His eyes lift to mine immediately, pupils blown wide enough to nearly swallow the gray. “Remy,” he says carefully.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Something hot flashes across his face at that. Relief mixed with hunger mixed with something almost emotional enough to scare me. Then his hands slide beneath my blouse. The first touch of his palms against my bare skin pulls a sharp breath out of me. He freezes instantly.
“Too much?”
The care in his tone hits somewhere deep and dangerous.
“No,” I whisper quickly. “No, I just—” My brain completely blanks when his thumbs stroke lightly across my waist. “Oh, my God.”
A rough laugh escapes him. “Yeah. That’s kind of where I’m at, too.”
I kiss him again before he can say anything else unbearably sincere, because if this man keeps looking at me like I matter, I’m going to make some truly life-altering decisions.
Owen kisses me like he’s trying very hard not to lose his mind. Unfortunately for both of us, I’m not particularly interested in helping him keep it. My hands slide under the hem of his training shirt, palms flattening against warm skin and hard muscle, and the second I touch him directly, he sucks in a sharp breath against my mouth.
There it is again.
That complete lack of ego.
Most men want to seem unaffected. Controlled. Skilled. Owen reacts to me like his body forgot how to manipulate.
It’s insanely hot.
I push his shirt higher, and he breaks the kiss long enough to drag it over his head before tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. My brain short-circuits for a second at the sight of him.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Scars scattered across hard muscle like faded souvenirs from years on the ice. He’s huge up close. Not in a threatening way. In a way that makes me abruptly, viscerally aware of being a woman standing alone in an office with a very large hockey player who looks at me like I’m his favorite thing on earth.
The wildest part?
I trust him completely.
That realization hits me right as Owen’s hands settle under my thighs.
“Jump,” he says softly.
I do.
Apparently, without hesitation, because his expression flickers briefly when my legs wrap around his waist immediately. Like he felt the trust, too.
His mouth crashes into mine as he lifts me effortlessly onto the desk, papers and folders shoving aside beneath me. Metal clatters to the floor behind us.
Probably important, but not my problem right now. Owen stands between my knees, breathing hard enough that I can feel it against my chest while his hands slide up my thighs beneath my skirt.
