The Romance Line (Love and Hockey Book 2)

Everly

The lights in my room are soft, but not dim.

The music beats, low in the background—a playlist I cued up. I don’t even know what’s on it. I don’t really care. It just covers the jackrabbit pace of my heart. The thump, thump, thump that’s hard and insistent against my rib cage.

And far too fast, but there’s no way to slow it down. We kick off shoes, and in the doorway, I reach for Max’s hand and lead him across the hardwood to my bed. I stop a foot away, facing him.

“Hi,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m saying that. I’m just nervous.

“Hey,” Max says, soft and tender, too, and maybe also a little bit nervous. But I think they’re nerves of anticipation. Perhaps of hope.

I didn’t tell him what I wanted tonight.

Just in case I back down.

My stomach swoops, dipping like a boat battered in the North Sea as I fiddle with the top button of my jeans, fumbling once, then undoing it, then the zipper. It sticks and I laugh. “These zippers,” I say.

“Let me help,” he says, steady and reassuring. With a quick tug, he gets it unstuck. He unzips it the rest of the way. With strong, sure hands, he skims the denim down my thighs to my ankles.

I step out.

His eyes drink me in from my bare legs up to the white sweater I’m wearing, landing on my face. He runs his thumb along my jawline. Then he waits for my next move.

But that’s easy still.

“Your turn,” I say as I tug on the bottom of his dark blue Henley and whisk it off. A sigh of appreciation escapes my lips—he’s so strong. But he’s not simply carved and toned from the gym, like an athlete should be. He’s rippling with rugged muscles, tough and battle-tested. He looks powerful in his own skin. His body is trained to stop goals but he can also carry you across the room and set you gently on a bed. Wiry chest hair descends from his pecs down to his abs. His biceps boast a few scratches. A couple blue bruises decorate his forearms.

I want to keep exploring all of him. I run my hands down his arms, tracing all the lines and marks on him, the little blue lakes, the scratches, and even the scar on his eyebrow—that unfairly sexy scar.

My hands roam back down to his strong chest, and I cover his pecs then play with his nipples. He groans, quick, unbidden, a gust of breath coasting across his lips that forms my name like a plea. “Everly.”

Chills erupt over my skin from the sound of him. I drag my nails down his abs .

He shivers.

I inch closer, dip my face to his chest, and run my nose from his pecs up to his throat, where I kiss his Adam’s apple. “Midnight Flame,” I say. Then I revise that to, “My midnight flame.”

He runs his fingers through my hair. “You’re possessive.”

“And you like it,” I say.

He presses an equally possessive kiss to the top of my head. “No. I love it.”

I look up and he lets go of my hair, one hand capturing my waist. I blow out a breath and reach for the hem of my white sweater and tug it off. I’m wearing a tank top along with the white bra and panties. But still I’m standing in front of him with no wall behind me, no couch against my back, no pillows to sink into.

No safety net to hide behind.

I don’t think my heart has ever beat this fast. “Why does this feel like the first time with us?”

He swallows, his expression shifting instantly to something vulnerable and earnest too. “Maybe it is.”

There’s that hope in his voice. A tenderness as well. And something else—something so safe I didn’t know I was looking for it until I found it in him.

Another song begins and that’s as good a reason as any for me to reach for his jeans. He helps me along, unzipping and pushing them down, and in no time they’re off. He’s wearing only a pair of snug boxer briefs that don’t do a damn thing to hide his obvious—very obvious—arousal.

That thrills me. It thrills me so much. I don’t know that I will ever get enough of his want. It’s the opposite of my last experience. It’s the other side of how I felt with Gunnar. It’s the evidence I constantly crave. So I reach for his hard-on, squeezing it, drawing out a sharp gasp from his lips. I run my palm up and down the steely length of him, then look in his eyes. There’s lust there of course. But patience too. He’s been so patient with me.

My heart beats furiously in my throat as I grab the bottom of the tank top and tug it off. I’m standing only in the white lace set I bought last week—a demi-cup bra and bikini panties with little embroidered flowers on the waistband in pinks and purples. His eyes glimmer with heat and also something like awe. “You are just…extraordinary.”

My breath catches but I don’t say a word. I’m afraid to talk. I’m afraid I’ll just sob. I’m not sad. But I am one exposed nerve. I take his hand and walk backward to the bed, bringing him with me. He’s facing me the whole way. I sit on the mattress and look up at him. Like I’m at the edge of a cliff and the water is an inviting crystal blue, I slide a finger invitingly along the strap of my bra then jump off. “Do you want to take this off me?”

He grabs my face and holds me with such intensity that I feel precious as he says, “I do.”

It’s said urgently, with a wild desperation and, more so, a complete understanding of the question.

Max starts with a kiss on my right shoulder since he’s sitting on that side. Then he blazes a trail of kisses up to my neck as his hand slides around to my lower back on my right side—the smooth side.

Then he shifts me so I’m turned toward him. He dips his mouth to my left shoulder, kissing me there, journeying along that raised, red scar. He’s kissed me there before, many times. Touched me there every night. Seen that scar and the ones on my upper arm in the past. But we both know where this moment is going—well beyond my shoulder, well past my arm.

With a firm hand on my chin, he raises his face, and with his eyes on me, he says in a steady, confident voice, “I’m going to unhook it.”

He’s not simply giving me a play-by-play. He’s giving me a heads-up that he’s going to touch my back for the first time. Everywhere. I swallow and nod, granting permission once more, even though it’s already been given.

His big, calloused hands cinch around my stomach, sliding over both sides of my back. They reach the hook and he undoes it, then lets the delicate lace fabric fall free, slowly sliding down my arms. He catches it. Sets it down on the bed.

He’s seen my breasts before, of course. But it feels different when he cups them, weighs them, then lets go. It feels different because when I lift my chin and meet his honest gaze, I say, “You can look.”

There’s a pause as he runs the back of his fingers along my cheek. He drops a tender, adoring kiss to my mouth, then shifts his weight. The mattress sinks. He moves on the bed, kneeling behind me for the first time.

I hold my breath. I’ve been here before. I’ve been left alone here before. My heart beats in my throat. Emotions swim up my body. Memories, too, along with images from the night of the accident. But I breathe through them, past them, cataloging the beat of the sultry song in the background, the faint scent of midnight and longing, the softness of the duvet.

And him.

While I want to lower my face, I don’t do that either. I stay strong because I am strong. I know that now. I believe that now.

A second later, Max’s big hands cover my shoulders, then glide slowly, tenderly. He’s like an archaeologist touching a treasure for the first time. One hand coasts down the smooth skin on my right side, the other along the bumpy, scarred, once-burned skin on the left.

He touches each side of me the same way. His touch is hungry and reverent as his hands travel all over the terrain of my body, the map of the last three years of my life. Then it’s no longer just his hands on my back. They’re joined by his mouth. Hands and lips and the scratch of his beard as he kisses all the imperfect pieces of me.

“I love them,” he says in a gravelly rasp.

I turn back to him, unsure I’ve heard him right. Because I’m not sure anyone could say that. “What?”

He clasps my cheek, drops a kiss to my lips that he finishes with a desperate sigh, then returns to my back. “I love them so much,” he says, his own voice full of emotion, like he’s fighting to keep it together. With a shudder, he kisses my back more urgently, all over. “Because they mean you’re alive,” he says, then he raises his face and bands his strong arms around me, pressing his warm chest to my back, clutching me against him like I’m the treasure he’s keeping safe. “You’re alive and here with me.”

Just in time.

I clasp his hands in front of my chest and hold on tight. But I can’t hold back the tears that flood down my cheeks. He is so much more than I’d ever imagined. “I’m here,” I say, but it’s not a whisper this time.

It’s steady and strong, like how I feel with Max Lambert.

“And I love them. I love everything about you, and most of all, this,” he says, his hand sliding up and between my breasts where he spreads his palm across my heart and covers it. Like he’s protecting it. Like that’s all he wants to do for me. Protect me.

And I believe he does.

I close my eyes because this moment is overwhelming. But I lean back against his shoulder, resting on him. The tears slide down my cheeks, and when they slow I say, “You make me feel everything.”

I can feel his smile. Can hear his grateful murmur. He kisses the salt from my face until I turn and capture his mouth.

We kiss, and it’s hot and needy and unstoppable.

We’re clawing at each other, grabbing at the last bits of clothes. He whisks off my panties, and I tug down his boxer briefs, and we’re tumbling together on my bed. A tangle of arms and limbs, skin and flesh, bodies and hearts. He’s on top of me, and then I’m on top of him. His hands coast up my back again, fearlessly, then into my hair as he hauls me back down for another passionate kiss.

When he lets go, I’m so amped up, I blurt out, “Put me on all fours.”

His fantasy.

His wish.

But mine too.

He closes his eyes for a brief second, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling so wide, like I’ve given him a dream come true. What a wild thought. When he opens them, he says, “Are you sure?”

My lips curve up. “I’m serious about everything with you.”

He holds my face. “You’re my real favorite thing. ”

Some men just say things, but I know Max means his words. This man adores me, and it’s such a thrill to feel the full weight of his affection. “And you’re mine,” I say.

I move to my hands and knees, shifting into a position I never thought I’d want. Or really, I never thought a lover would want to see me like this.

But as I bow my back, I’m hardly thinking about how I look to him. I’m simply feeling. The ache inside me. The trembles racing over my skin. The curl of pleasure intensifying in my stomach.

And the heady anticipation as Max kneels behind me, rubs his hands over my ass, then covers himself. He notches the head of his cock against me, and I gasp, sharp and fast. He pushes in. My skin tingles. He groans. He sinks into me all the way. Then he does as he promised a few nights ago.

I can still hear his words echoing in my mind. “ Want to get you naked. Put you on all fours. Fuck you from behind. Touch you everywhere. ”

He fucks me like that. It’s hard and passionate and fearless. No one would look at us and say we’re making love. But as he fucks me, I know that’s what we’re doing. He runs his hands up and down my back. He doesn’t shy away from my scars. He doesn’t hold back his lust. He groans and he grunts. He touches and he explores. Most of all—he shows .

He shows me with his actions that he’s not leaving.

As we’re both getting closer, he pushes on the small of my back and rasps hotly in my ear, “Lower your tits to the mattress.”

I shudder from the command.

That wasn’t what I expected him to say, yet it’s perfect too .

I drop down and with my face turned to the side, pressed into the bed, he covers me. Roping a powerful arm around my chest, he tugs me impossibly closer. Then he fucks me hard and powerfully, and I don’t even need a hand between my thighs to help myself along. All these raw emotions, all these wild, risky feelings storm inside me, whipping into bliss till I grab the sheets. I fall apart beneath him, and he pumps hard a few more times, then jerks, stills, and groans my name like I’m all he’s ever wanted.

The world spins away, and I let it go.

This is all there is, and I don’t want to give him up.