The noise in him stopped.
I felt it.
Not imagined. Not romanticized. The restless energy that had been scraping against every surface in the room went quiet beneath my hand.
My own control did not survive the silence.
His throat moved against my palm.
“Tell me to leave,” he said, barely audible.
I did not.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Mine dropped to his.
There was no accident in what happened next. No stumble. No confusion. I gave him time to move away, and he didn’t. He leaned in half an inch, enough to make it a choice, enough to ruin us both.
I kissed him.
The first touch was rough because neither of us knew how to make it gentle. His mouth opened on a sharp breath, and I took it, stepped into him until his back hit the metal shelving behindhim. One of the racks rattled. He made a sound low in his throat that went straight through my spine.
I tightened my hand at his neck. Not choking. Holding. Anchoring.
He grabbed my jacket with both fists and pulled like he wanted the contact more than air. His mouth was hot, eager, unpracticed in a way that made the hunger worse. This was not the polished rhythm of someone who had done this a hundred times. This was discovery under pressure. Teeth catching, breath breaking, his stubble scraping mine, his tongue meeting mine with a stunned, aggressive need that had no room for denial.
I had kissed women my whole adult life.
This was different in every physical detail. The strength of him. The hard line of his chest against mine. The roughness of his jaw. The way he pushed back instead of yielding, then went pliant for one second when my hand slid fully around the back of his neck and held him where I wanted him.
That second nearly ended me.
I pressed my hips forward without thinking.
He felt me. I felt him.
Both of us hard, trapped between layers of practice gear and the last remains of sense.
Jace broke from my mouth with a ragged inhale, then came back immediately, angrier this time, like he resented needing another taste. His hands moved from my jacket to my shoulders, then one shoved into my hair. He pulled too hard. I welcomed the pain.
My free hand found his waist, gripped, dragged him closer. He shuddered. Not delicate. Full body, helpless, honest.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my mouth.
I kissed the word out of him.
For a minute, maybe less, maybe a lifetime, there was no rink outside the door. No team waiting. No wife in Dallas. No girlfriend wearing his shirt in his kitchen. No contract. No title.
Only Jace, shaking under my hand because I was touching him.
Only me, losing the one thing I had always trusted myself to keep.
He was the one who stopped first.
Not far. Just enough to break the kiss. His forehead hovered near mine. His lips were red, wet, parted. His breath came hard. His eyes were unfocused in a way that made satisfaction and fear twist together in my gut.
Then awareness returned.
