“I’m confused.”
“About?”
“About why you really came to Brody’s. About why you’re driving me home. About that tattoo and where it goes and why I can’t stop thinking about?—”
“Marnie.”
“What?”
“You’re saying all of that out loud.”
Oh my God.
“There was a lot of wine.”
“And a lot of romance novels,” he adds, but there’s something in his voice that makes me look at him. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Did you really come for the puck?”
“No.”
“Why then?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer.
“Brody said you were there. Said you looked happy. I wanted to see that.”
“You wanted to see me happy?”
“You’re always tired at the facility. Always worried about something. Tonight you were laughing.”
“And?”
“And I liked it.”
The admission hangs between us, filled with meaning I’m not sober enough to fully process.
Roman pullsinto my building’s parking lot and cuts the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thanks for driving me,” I say, reaching for the door handle.
“Wait.”
He’s out of the truck before I can respond, coming around to my side. When he opens my door, I’m reminded of just how high up this truck sits. And how tall he is.
He offers his hand to help me down and when I’m standing on the running board we’re almost at eye level. I can see the moment hemakes his decision. His eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up, pupils dilated in the parking lot lights.
“Marnie,” is all he says before he’s lifting me slightly, pressing me back against the cold metal of the truck door.
No hesitation. No asking. Just his mouth on mine like he’s been thinking about this for weeks the same way I have.
The muscles of his shoulders are knotted with tension under my hands as he holds me steady, all that famous control coiled tight. He kisses with the same control at first, measured, almost testing, but when I bite his bottom lip—not hard, just enough—everything changes.
That sound he makes, low and involuntary, vibrates through both of us and suddenly his control isn’t quite so controlled anymore.
His hand slides into my hair while the other grips my hip, thumb finding that hollow above the bone that makes me gasp into his mouth. My fingers find the tendons at the back of his neck, that spot where tension always collects in athletes, and when I press there he groans and pushes closer, one thigh sliding between mine as much as our position allows.
