Ripped (Real, #5)(58)

“College hockey team plays here. I pulled a couple of strings.”

The strings of my heart? He’s playing those so well too. My chest has never felt so full as I take the skates he extends by the laces, and I immediately kick off my shoes and slide them on.

Ohmigod, it’s been . . . forever.

And a day.

I line up my skates and slide onto the ice with a floating sensation in my legs. I find my balance within a minute, and I slowly raise my hands and spin, my face turned to the ceiling rafters. “Ohmigod, do you realize how long it’s been?”

He ties his own skates and catches up with me fast: as fast as a hockey player. “A thousand and five hundred days,” he tells me.

When he slides his arm around my waist and pulls my body to his, aligning us perfectly, my smile fades, but my happiness doesn’t. He takes my arm and spins me like a top, for the first time in a long time, and I laugh. I laugh and squeal, “Don’t let me fall!”

“Never.”

He catches me when I grow dizzy, and then we skate and spin, skate and play, skate and race each other, fool around until we fall. We get tangled in each other’s legs and laugh as we go down. He catches me every time, always ready to break my fall, and then we sit there, my body slightly on top of his, catching our breath. Just like old times.

But now, he doesn’t need to wear a cap on his head to hide his face, and I don’t need an oversized cap on mine to avoid being seen.

His face is right before me, every angle available for my attention.

I give it my all, while he does the same.

I close my eyes when he traces his silver ring along my jawline, up to my temple, around my ear. “I love your face.” His voice is thick, sexy. Unique.

I feel it in every cell of me.

My eyes open to find his, and his stare is intent. Unapologetic. Reverent and still very, very busy taking me in.

“And your lips,” he murmurs thickly, his ring now rubbing them too. “I love making these lips smile.” I find myself smiling and feeling an intense happiness when he smiles back at me.

No bullshit. This is real. And perfect.

“All right, lady, time to go,” he says, getting up on his feet.

“Good. My butt’s frozen,” I lie.

But I never want to leave this place. I never want to forget how I feel when I’m in his arms, spinning and spinning and spinning like a kid.

? ? ?

WE STOP AT a motel, the first we find after sunset. We’re both tired. Mackenna pulls me inside, opens the shower, and murmurs, “Come shower with me.”

My first instinct is no.

Too intimate . . .

Too risky . . .

Danger.

“No funny business. Promise.” He lifts his hands innocently.

My heart seems to lead before my brain can settle on what to do, and before I know it, I’m already peeling off my clothes, aware of the liquid tenderness in his gaze as he watches me.

He keeps his word, but I can tell it’s a test of honor. He’s very hard. His erection almost gets in the way every time we shift around to help each other soap up. I try to soap up quickly so I can finish quickly and stop feeling jittery and hot, but when he soaps me up with his big hands, I just can’t rush the shower anymore. So a quick shower turns into a long shower. He soaps me, and I soap him. We close our eyes. Groan a little. Whisper, “You feel good.” That came from me, and he’s not far behind as he lathers my hair with shampoo, his wet lips brushing my earlobe. “You smell good. I want to taste you tonight.”

The panel steams up.

“I really need to work,” I say reluctantly.

“No one’s stopping you,” he says.

“Okay.”

I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, but Mackenna remains, rinsing the rest of the soap from himself. As I towel dry, I notice him in the stall, turning the knob for cold water. He closes his eyes as the water runs down his chest. He groans, and I hadn’t realized he was so aroused by our shower; his cock looks like a baseball bat aimed high for a home run swing.

Between my legs, I ache with the want to have that, him, in me. Way to go for saying you need to work, Pandora.

Idiot.

I turn away when he steps out of the shower, and it takes me a moment to have the courage to take a peek. He’s got a towel around his hips, a glorious, wet rock god, flashing me a smile. “You okay, babe? Hop on the Wi-Fi and do your thing while I dick about with my guitar.”

Did he say “dick”?

“O-okay,” I say, flushing like a moron as I pull out my laptop and sit on the bed with it.

Is he still hard?

Did it go soft?

Does he still want to do it?

Hell I want to do it.

We both work quietly, and I peer from my computer to where he sits on the sofa by the window. He looked so f*cking hot taking a cold shower I’m still stewing inside. He looks hot stroking those fingers over his guitar. Even when he showers, he can never really get rid of the kohl under his eyes, and Lord, he looks hot with that too. I can’t believe how hard he’d been in that shower. Can that possibly be remedied by just cold water? He didn’t pressure me when he’d given me his word, and by god, that’s superhot too.

Listen to me. This, right here, is all the sex I didn’t have for six years demanding to be experienced. Fuck that. I have work to do.