My core is absolutely raw, but in the most delicious way possible. Almost like I can still feel Skye’s mouth on me. I fight to keep my hips still at the phantom sensation, but thankfully, I’m able to keep my body movements to a minimum.
She left a mark on the inside of my thigh, and I want to cherish it forever. She may as well have written “SKYE”on the bottom of my boot. Branding me as her own, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A small pang of dread hits my gut at the realization that this can’t last forever. It’s a thought I’ve been trying to avoid since we met. I don’t know where she’s from, but the chances of us both being from New York are pretty slim. Not to mention this little problem called “I’m a famous pop singer who can’t tell anyone my real name.” I’m sure Skye will notice I’m not at the local hospital when I’m at work.
There’s no chance that whatever this thing is between Skye and me will end in my favor. I care about her, but I can’t put myself in the position of telling someone my biggest secret and having them do something to hurt me. Though I don’t see Skye sleeping with any of my family members.
I feel my demeanor shifting from fun and spunky to depressy-expressy.
Enjoy it while you’re here. It’s Milan. She’s a hot hockey player who claimed you with a leather choker. Live a little and see what happens while the mask is off.
Skye walks beside me, easy confidence in every step. Her captain energy doesn’t turn off just because she’s in a wool coat instead of an Olympic jersey.
The rest of the team fans out behind us, voices bouncing off stone buildings and laughter echoing down the narrow street.
“Okay,” Rissa announces, clapping her gloved hands together like she’s calling a meeting no one asked for. “Rule number one, if we get lost, that’s just first-hand cultural exploration.”
“That’s not a rule, it’s an excuse,” Paige calmly states, adjusting the strap on her backpack.
Paige walks slightly to my right, not too far, but not too close either. She’s always like that. Polite but observant. I can’t help but notice her eyes flick to me, quick and unreadable, like she’s tracking me as though I’m a puck she hasn’t decided whether or not to hit with a stick.
I smile at her anyway, and she smiles back. Maybe I’m just imagining her subtle hostility.
Riley suddenly gasps behind us.
“Oh, my God.”
Skye sighs and nudges me with her elbow, looking down at me like she knows what Riley’s about to say.
“We’re about to turn left.” Riley’s voice is filled with absolute certainty, a subtle reminder that she’s the team psychic. I love that about her.
Rissa snorts. “Riley, the street literally only goes left.”
Riley points to her temple. “Still counts.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but Skye smiles and shakes her head in amusement.
We wander past old stone buildings and shuttered cafes. The air smells like coffee and something sweet that I can’t place. My boots echo on the pavement.
Skye glances at me. “You cold?”
“A little,” I admit. “But it’s a good cold.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense.
A street musician stands a little off to the side, violin tucked under his chin, and his fingers are red from the low temperature. The music slowly floats through the air, and I let it wash over me. As a musician myself, I don’t just hear the song. I appreciate the choices in every breath and every chord.
We pass a group of teenagers taking turns posing dramatically for photos. One of them nearly bumps into Skye, looks up, startles, and then grins.
“Scusa.” She smiles.
Skye smiles back. “Tutto bene.”
I watch it happen like it’s a magic trick. No one recognizes her as a famous hockey star. We’re all just tourists out enjoying the sights.
My eyebrow raises at Skye’s use of the local language, and she gives me a shrug like it’s no big thing.
When everyone flows out of earshot to look at one thing or another, I whisper, “Speak Italian to me.”
