When he angles my head to deepen the kiss, I can feel his pulse racing under my fingertips. As fast as mine, maybe faster.
He breaks away only to trail his mouth down to my jaw, and there’s the rasp of stubble against my skin that sends heat straight through me.
“Fuck,” I breathe, and I feel him smile against my neck.
“Been wanting to do that since you called me out for adding weight to my workouts,” he murmurs, voice rough, then catches my earlobe between his teeth and my knees actually give out.
His arm bands around my waist, those hockey reflexes keeping me upright, keeping me close.
The parking lot could be full of people for all I care. There’s just Roman’s mouth on mine again, harder now, kissing me like he’s trying to make up for weeks of restraint in this one moment.
When he finally pulls back, I’m gripping his shoulders just to staystanding. My lips feel swollen and oversensitive. Through my palms I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his muscles are bunched with tension like he’s physically holding himself back from doing more.
My legs are unsteady—some combination of the height differential and what just happened—and he keeps his hand on my lower back as we walk to my building. The heat of his palm burns through my dress, grounding me when I feel like I might float away.
At my door, I fumble with keys that suddenly seem impossibly complicated while he stands close behind me. Not touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating off him and my hands won’t stop shaking.
The lock won’t cooperate. I can hear his breathing, still not quite steady.
The lock finally clicks and I turn to face him, back against my door frame.
“Do you want to?—”
The words die as he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with deliberate slowness. His fingers trail down from there, barely grazing along my jaw, then across my collarbone. So light I shiver.
He watches the path of his fingers like he’s memorizing it, and when his eyes finally meet mine again, they’re dark with want but also something else.
Resolve.
“See you Monday, Marnie.” He says softly, like saying those words costs him something.
His hand drops, and he takes a step back.
Then he’s walking to his truck with that athlete’s gait, all controlled power, leaving me standing in my doorway with an unfinished invitation on my lips and my skin still burning from that barely-there touch.
Inside, I lean against the closed door, fingers automatically going to my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his. My whole bodyfeels like every nerve ending is firing at once. My hair is wrecked. I can feel where his fingers tangled in it. And tomorrow there will definitely be marks on my hips from where he gripped me.
What the hell just happened?
My legs are still shaky as I make my way to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. I look thoroughly kissed. Swollen lips, flushed cheeks, hair a disaster. I look like someone who was just pressed against a truck and kissed within an inch of her life by a professional hockey player who’s apparently been thinking about doing exactly that.
My phone buzzes.
Roman
Sweet dreams, Doc.
I stare at the words, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What do I even say to that? Thanks for the life-altering kiss? My legs still don’t work properly? I tried to invite you inside and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed that you didn’t let me finish that sentence?
I finally settle on the simplest answer.
Night Captain.
Two words that feel safer than everything else I want to say.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately wonder if that was too casual, too flirty, too something.
God, Monday.
