Page 72 of Crease Collision

Oskar watches as the sauce smears into a streak, and I start using both hands, pressing too hard. The paper towel tears. I squeak.

Squeak!

“It is fine, baby.” His voice is almost a growl. He gets another towel and wipes up the mess, then brushes his lips against my cheek. “Do not worry.”

My knees wobble. I wish he’d do it again, but he only looks at me.

I throw the towels away and try to regain my equilibrium. “Funny hockey story,” I say. “Go.”

He thinks for a minute as he stirs the meatballs. “I know. In juniors, we played against Växjö. Their arena has a weird echo, so it’s hard to concentrate. To fight it, I started singing an ABBA song to myself during the game.”

It sounds ridiculous, but I get it. Hell, I’ve done it.

“ABBA?” I ask. “Seriously? Which one?”

He pulls himself to his full height, daring me to make fun of him. “‘Dancing Queen.’ I made it to the second chorus before I noticed a Växjö defenseman had come over beside me, trying to block my view.”

“You didn’t see him coming?”

He shakes his head. “Told you the echo wrecked my focus. Anyway, the ref stopped play for icing, and the Växjö guy looked at me and asked, ‘Singing about somebody you know or yourself, dancing queen?’ I told him, ‘I’m singing about you. You’re prettier than your girlfriend.’”

I start laughing again. “No way.”

“The guy went pale and skated away. Two years later, he hit on me at a club, but I wasn’t interested.”

My chest tightens, and what’s that about?

Christ.

“Your turn,” he says.

“I went to Boston College. Once, we had a game against BU. The ice was so soft my skates were sinking into the crease. I got stuck every time I went down to butterfly. Eventually, I had to pull myself out of the ice. Literally.”

He snickers and gives me a funny look. “I know you are very flexible. Maybe you need to stretch.”

“I do. I⁠—”

Oh fuck. That’s heat in his eyes.

My knuckles graze his arm as I reach for the buns. Electricity shoots up my spine.

“Kai.” His voice isn’t much more than a growl. He turns off the burners under both our pans.

“Hmm?” Shit. I sound more like a kitten than a goalie.

He’s standing very close, and my pulse starts pounding in my ears.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then our lips crash together, and I’m lost. He cups my cheeks, and his tongue slides into my mouth, claiming me. The heat between us roars into a fire. I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me.

My mind goes quiet as he deepens the kiss. His hands slide down my chest and settle on my waist. All I know is his mouth on mine, the slow glide of our tongues, and the safety of him holding me.

This kiss isn’t a question; it’s an answer.

He pushes me back against the counter. It digs into me, but I don’t care. All that matters is the starving, desperate way he’s kissing me.

There’s only us and the slick glide of our tongues, his hardness as he grinds against me.

Just as I’m about to melt into a puddle, he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. We’re both panting.