The crowd roared as we left the ice, the spotlights spinning in a chaotic pattern, the music’s beat pulsing with the blood in my veins. The pressure was on this season, and we’d just won our opening game. As defending Stanley Cup champions, we had everything to lose.

But I had everything to gain.

Like the eight-point-five million dollar a year contract I’d just signed this summer with the Sharks that guaranteed to keep me in Seattle for the next five years, and made me the ninth highest paid player in all of the NHL.

I sped through my locker room routine, while I joked with the guys and tormented the newest rookies, whose eyes were as big as saucers. No more goofing off, no more stalling before heading out to the bar. Game was over, and I had better things to do than hang around the locker room.

“Hey, you coming over this weekend?” Gage asked as I zipped up my bag.

“Barbecue at your place? We’ll be there,” I told him. Shit, we’d gone so damn domestic.

I exited the locker room and was immediately hounded by press. I took two questions, both of which revolved around our newest rookie, Gentry, and how he was fitting into the house as our goaltender. A glimpse of red from over the reporter’s shoulder was all I needed to wish them all a good night, and ditch the dog and pony show.

I pushed through the small crowd to see Paige leaned up against the wall, her hair piled on her head in some kind of knot, my jersey covering her gorgeous, swollen belly. Gone were the sexy pumps for the next—and last—couple months of her pregnancy, and in their place were adorable chucks that I tied every morning since she couldn’t reach her toes.

“Good evening, my ladies,” I said, kissing Paige’s stomach, and receiving a kick for my effort from our little girl, whom we’d just decided to name Daphne.

“Hiya, stranger,” Paige said with a smile.

I kissed her softly, cupping her face as I caressed her lips, gently tugging on the lower one. She whimpered slightly, arching up for a deeper kiss, and I briefly obliged. The press had long-since gotten over taking pictures of our PDA, and since I’d put a ring on her finger right after we’d won the Cup, we were old news to them.

That was me: Rory Jackson. Old, married, domestic, expectant father.

Never happier.

“You get everything done you wanted to at the office today?” I asked as I held her hand, leading her out to our car. She’d walked away from every job offer in order to run her own non-profit. Jackson Squared was her baby, now. We’d started it up with my signing bonus, funding not only the Seattle shelter but one in Oregon, too. Now Paige spent her days, and her energy doing what she loved—raising funds and making savvy decisions that made a difference in the lives of the homeless. I knew one day she’d want to return to corporate America, where she shone, but for now, she was happy and thriving while waiting for our daughter, for whom she’d already sworn off nannies.

“I looked at the plans for the new shelter in Portland, and the site for the prospective one in Sacramento. Ooh, and I took a phone call from Matt Donaldson, who wants to help out with sponsoring one in L.A.” A devilish gleam crossed her green eyes as she leaned back against my very new, very safe, very family-friendly Range Rover. It matched the garage of our very big, very appropriate new home in Gage’s neighborhood. Our kids would grow up together and have the kind of friendship and support I’d only ever dreamed of.  “He told me that he couldn’t wait to see me next month when he flew in and that the pictures he’d seen of me showed that pregnancy made me glow—”

I claimed her mouth, careful with our daughter between us as I pinned my wife to my car. I laced our fingers, holding her hands against the glass as I took her mouth the way I couldn’t wait to take her body—with full, sweeping strokes of my tongue. Fuck, the woman drove me wild.

Months of anger management counseling had my temper firmly checked, but the jealousy always flared, and she knew it. She reveled in how much I loved her, worshipped her, and how much power it gave her over me. Since I maintained about ninety-five percent of the power in the bedroom—the way she liked it—I let her goad me whenever she wanted.

Hell, she could do whatever she wanted as long as she loved me.

“Tell Matt Donaldson that you’re married and heavily pregnant with my child. And once you’re healed, and strong, you’ll be back under me, over me, bent over in front of me, so our daughter has a sibling. There won’t be a day where I won’t be inside you in some way or another, so you really have no time for Hollywood do-gooders. Besides, you’re too busy doing good yourself.”

Her smile lit the night as she brushed her lips against mine. “I kinda like it when you go all caveman.”

“I’m well aware.”

Her arms wrapped around my neck, her scent and feel already making me harder than the car she leaned against. “I did something else today,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Number seventeen?” she asked coyly, biting her lip.

“The swing?” my voice nearly broke on the last word, but I hung onto my manhood by a thread.

“Installed in our bedroom today.”

“Holy. Shit.” A swing. In our bedroom. No pressure on her belly, no worries that my weight would crush her...just pure, simple access to my wife, and the ability to make her scream.

“How about you take me home, Mr. Jackson?”

“Anything for you, Mrs. Jackson.”

God, I loved this woman. Her mind, her heart, her soul. She’d be the mother to our daughter that I hadn’t had. I’d be the father who would crush anyone who looked at my baby girl sideways. We’d be a family—and we’d have forever.