Page 64 of Slapshot Bride

When I open my eyes, the sun has moved. The skylight is throwing its broken light at a different angle on the water.

I slip out of the lounger, take three steps to the edge of the pool, and I step in.

The water is warm, just how I like it. I sink to my shoulders, then I dunk under, and I come up with my hair plastered to my neck from my loosened bun, and my eyes stinging. I drag my palm over my face to wipe off the water, and blink a few times. Then, I go in again.

I float for a while.

When I haul myself out, I'm dripping, and the tank top and shorts have gone heavy with water, now clinging to my body almost like a second skin.

I slick my hair back and turn.

Easton is in the doorway.

He’s come straight from practice, his bag still on his shoulder, his cap still on, the kind of clean post-practice tiredness on him that means he has been thinking about the drive home while still on the rink.

His eyes are on me. They drop. They come back. They drop again, and stay there for a beat longer than is polite, and that is when I look down.

The white tank top has gone completely transparent.

I can see my own skin through it. The shape of me. All bare, with nipples imprinted on the top. All staring back at him.

I should cover up. But my arms don’t move. Instead, I stare at him, unable to look away.

Whatever exhaustion had been on his face minutes ago is gone. In its place is an unreadable expression.

He gulps and his Adam’s apple bobs. His gaze rakes all over me, leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the warm afternoon sun.

His eyes… they’re darker than usual, and his lips are slightly parted. The tip of his tongue wets his lips.

His bag slides off his shoulder to the floor, and he heads towards me, not breaking eye contact.

I stay rooted to the spot because for some reason, my legs have failed me. I know I’ll trip if I take a step because I can’t feel them.

I look back at him.

“E-Easton…”

He gets to me, and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I don’t have time to protest before his lips slant against mine.

I freeze. But when he licks across the seam of my lips, I give in, releasing a soft moan.

My arms reach for his shoulders to steady my legs, and I melt into him. His free hand rests on my hip, traveling higher, past my wet shorts to rest on my stomach.

“God… Riley, you’re gonna be the death of me, baby.” He murmurs against my lips but doesn’t pull away.

His palm splayed on my stomach moves higher, fingers grazing the underside of my breast. I gasp, and he stops.

“Please, tell me to stop…” He groans.

I try to speak. Nothing comes out.

My legs are jelly, and I’m panting. It’s like his palm has left a trail of fire, burning down my spine. His arm on my waist tightens, pulling me impossibly close, and I feel it. The bulge in his pants.

Another gasp of surprise escapes my lips.

“Easton…”

He finally pulls back. His eyes land on me. They’re so dark, with pupils dilated, and the look on his face, like he’s visibly in pain.