Page 91 of The Holiday Wildcard

I drive up to meet her, and her rhythm breaks as I take control. She moans as I fuck her from beneath, my hand finding her clit between our bodies, and she squeezes around me so hard my vision blurs at the edges.

"You matter more than the contract," I tell her, watching her eyes flutter. "You know that, baby? More than the scouts. No game—fuck—no game has ever made me feel as powerful as watching you take me like this."

"Yes, Miles—" Her nails dig into my chest. "Please—"

"Eyes on me."

She comes around my cock staring directly into my eyes, loud and unashamed, and the sight drags me over with her. I drive deep and come inside her as she collapses across my chest, red silk trapped between our bodies and her heartbeat hammering against mine.

Slowly, we separate and I clean her gently with a warm cloth, carry her back to the fire, and wrap her in a blanket the size of a sail while she keeps the red nightdress on.

Whatever the paper says and whatever number is printed across it, none of it can recreate the feeling of Audrey curled against me by this fire.

This is what I didn’t know I wanted.

Which is exactly why I can’t put it off any longer.

I get up, take the folder from my coat, and set it on the blanket between us.

Audrey’s gaze moves across the Ottawa logo before lifting slowly to mine.

"Oh no. That's not a room service menu."

"It's an NHL contract. For the rest of the season. Yes, it's temporary, but I'd be on a real roster spot, with guaranteed money and an option for a one-year extension." I take a breath. Because this is fucking hard. "It's also enough money to clear the farm's debts outright. All of them. If I took this, for now, that developer's offer would go in the fireplace."

Audrey opens the folder and I watch her eyes find the salary.

"Miles." She looks up, and the excitement is real. "This is everything you've worked for."

"Yeah."

But underneath the excitement, I see the other thing. The thing she's working hard to hide, the fear pulling tight at the corners of her mouth while she smiles for my benefit.

"So what do you want?" she asks quietly, sipping her wine.

"That's the problem." I stare at the fire. "I've wanted this for years. And I don't know anymore if wanting something means it's still the right thing."

She's silent as her fingers trace the edge of the folder, her beautiful mind ticking over.