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The party is already in full swing when we arrive. I wanted to show up earlier, just in case Lily decided this wasn’t her scene and wanted to go home. Or . . . if it was too much for me and I needed to make an escape.

But it’s nice. Comfortable, because for the first time I’m not here to punish myself with hate-fueled sex or upsetting hookups. I’m here for a boy I’m in love with.

Bennett is against the far wall, huddled with the other guys from his line—Holden, Freddy, Rhys—and dressed in a black long sleeve and jeans. Somehow, he looks bigger. More powerful. More all-consuming. He’s sporting a backward hat to tamp down the unruly brown and amber curls pouring out the back. He’s so beautiful my breath catches, chest tightening like if I step too close, he’ll disappear.

I take Lily’s hand in mine before heading toward them, because without even looking back at her, I know her gaze is all over the place. Probably looking for a six-foot-six defenseman, though she won’t admit it.

Bennett’s eyes are on mine the whole way over, like a magnet pulling our gazes to each other across lifetimes. Only, this time it doesn’t hurt.

Holden notices us next, eyes brightening with a playful, flirty edge.

“Ladies. Paloma, good to see you,” he greets with a beaming grin. There’s an apology in his gaze, but I nod toward him.

“Dougherty,” I say. His smile renewed, he turns his eyes toward the girl at my side.

“Lily.” He nods to my roommate with a sharper edge to his smile.

Lily blushes and wrinkles her nose. “Holden.” Her arms cross, then release at her sides, hands flexing like she’s not sure how to stand, let alone talk to the flirty defenseman.

“Hey, Bennett,” I whisper as I step into Bennett’s already open arms. He’s so soft and warm, so resolute and solid as his hands slip over my hips and to my lower back with a heavy pressure.

“Hey, P.” He smiles. His eyes are half-lidded, and he smells like citrus—no doubt from the IPAs he’s drinking. Like he’s at a fancy brewery and not a college hockey party.

And then, as if we’ve done this a million times before at a million other parties, he kisses me. Bold and sensual, his tongue slipping to open my lips. My heart thumps so hard I can feel it trying to pop out of my chest and into his hands. Like it always feels with him.

His hand slowly climbs my spine and into my hair.

I laugh lowly as he releases my lips but keeps hold of my hair.

“How early did you start on the beers?”

He smiles lazily, more relaxed and boyish than I’m sure I’ve ever seen him. “Like . . . five o’clock.”

A brighter laugh pulls from me then as I shake my head at my slightly drunk boyfriend. “You’re drunk, love.”

“Drunk on you,” he flirts, pulling me in for another kiss before sliding his nose against mine affectionately.

His hands grip my hips in a way that has me blushing more than the kisses do, mostly because it brings back flashes of last night—the way he held me so solidly as I begged for him. I’m sure there are still slight marks on my wrists from the tie he used to keep my hands tethered.

Bennett spins me to settle with my back to his front. His hand sits low on my abdomen, possessive and warm, as he continues to chat quietly with Freddy about something hockey related. I can barely tell. My mind is floating too far above me.

No, I think. I’m the one drunk on Bennett Reiner.

“Want a drink?” he asks, head tipping down to my ear, his lips and tongue lightly brushing the skin there. “I’ll make it for you.”

“Yeah?” I grin.

He nods, boyish and handsome, his hair a mess as he pulls off his baseball cap and readjusts it, pushing the mop of his curls back again. “Anything you want. I’ll make it for you, P. Anything for you.”

His words are slightly slurred, but he’s not wasted yet—just enjoying himself with his friends. And with me. My cheeks warm as he spreads his hands across my waist and presses behind me to march us across the hall and into the kitchen.

A couple of the guys holler his name, and he nods politely, but his body heat never falters from my back, fingers squeezing on my hips.

The kitchen is dimly lit and crowded, an entire table dedicated to shots of different kinds. Bennett moves behind the makeshift bar where the freshmen are working and shoos them out of his way when they try to help him.

“My girlfriend—no one else touches her cup,” he says when one of the guys says something. I feel light and airy—almost giddy with affection for him.

The playful side of my serious, stoic poet. Every facet of him beautiful and shimmering, like spinning a diamond in the sunlight.