Page 66 of Game Misconduct

twenty-five

. . .

Bex

The door to my office flies open, a thunderous Nick Mitchell standing in my doorway. He’s wearing his skates and pads, making him look ten times bigger than usual. His face is flushed, his hair disheveled.

“Can I help you?” I do my best to keep my voice even despite my pulse thudding in my ears.

He looks angry. And hot as hell. But mostly angry.

Okay, and definitely hot.

“You’re not with him?”

“With who?” I’m so confused. What’s he talking about? Annaliese is on her lunch break; I’m all by myself, as he can see.

“Henry. You aren’t together?”

I blink. Where would he get that idea? Sure, I used Luke as a buffer on that island trip and during the wedding, but that was a year and a half ago. Besides, it was all a pretense. It was never real.

“We’re friends.”

Nick kicks my office door closed. A shiver runs through me at the sharp snick of the lock tumbling into place. The air is heavy, thick with tension.

He crosses the room in four quick strides, rounding my desk before skidding to a stop in front of me.

He lifts me from my desk chair like a rag doll, until I’m standing before him, gazing up at him. With his skates on, I barely come up to his shoulders, and I’m not a small woman.

Heat floods through me, turning my face red under his forceful stare, his brown eyes wild, pupils blown.

“Never?”

“Not once.”

Nick runs his thumb over the apple of my cheek. “I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

A lump lodges in my throat, cutting off my next breath. “You don’t have to ask my permission.”

“Not permission. Consent. I need vocal, enthusiastic consent.”

“You have it. Kiss away.”

His mouth curves into a wicked smile. “Your wish is my command.”

Based on the way he stormed in here, I’d expect his kiss to be hungry. To devour me. Consume me.

So when his lips finally land on mine, sweet and sure, I almost want to cry. They brush mine again—still careful, still questioning—like he’s relearning how to breathe through the simple act of touching me. The gentleness is almost unbearable. I fist the front of his jersey to steady myself, my heart thundering against my ribs as if it wants to leap into his hands.

Nick’s breath shudders out, warm against my cheek, and then the kiss deepens—slowly, reverently—like he’s tasting a truth he never thought he’d be allowed. His thumb drifts to my jaw, then the hollow beneath my ear, tracing me as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of what he almost lost.

I rise onto my toes to meet him, the world narrowing to the press of his mouth and the faint scrape of his stubble against my skin. His other hand slides to my waist, steadying me, guiding me closer until there isn’t an inch of air left between us. The hard edge of his pads bumps clumsily against my hips, and somehow the imperfection—the smell of ice still clinging to him, the cool bite of his hands brushing my ribs—makes my chest ache.

He kisses me like he’s furious and fragile, like he’s holding back a storm for my sake. And when I part my lips in invitation, he lets out a low sound—half relief, half devotion—that melts straight through me. His forehead drops to mine for a beat, breaths mingling, hearts racing in the same reckless tempo.

“I thought I lost my chance,” he murmurs, his voice roughened by something far more honest than anger.

“I’m starting to come around.”