ANDRE

It’s safe to say that Zoe sucks on the ice.

It’s also safe to say that I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.

“You gotta—” I break off at the sight of her legs wobbling like a newborn fawn’s. Pushing off my heels, I skate toward her, wrapping an arm around her slim waist just before she would have gone down. “Zo,” I say, glancing down at her beautiful face, “you can do better than this.”

Her hands push at my chest. “I told you,” she grumbles miserably, “I suck at skating. Just let me stay on solid ground and I’ll be okay.”

“We are standing on solid ground.”

“It’s frozen water.”

“Which is solid, otherwise we’d be swimming up to our calves.”

Her mouth purses, but I can tell she’s holding in a smile. “Stop being so literal.”

“Stop being such a worrywart.” Squeezing her once, I set her free and retreat from her tempting-as-hell body. “You need to stop thinking that you’re going to land on your ass.”

“That’s because I am going to land on my ass.”

Rolling my eyes, I hold out a hand, palm up. I shouldn’t be surprised when she doesn’t immediately take it, no doubt worried that I’ll pull a dirty prank and send her flying to the ground.

I wait her out.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

With a sigh of frustration, she gives in, dropping her hand into mine. God, it feels good. Holding her hand isn’t remotely sexual, but after having no contact with her for months, it feels like everything I’ve ever needed.

My voice emerges, deep and gravelly. “You ready?”

“No.”

“Zoe, didn’t I promise that I wouldn’t let you fall?”

At that, her dark eyes fix unblinking on my face, and I feel that one look like a sucker punch to the gut. Because I can see what she’s thinking as if she’d voiced her thoughts out loud.

Why did you have sex with me, knowing that I’d already fallen?

Because I couldn’t say no. Because I needed her like I needed air to breathe and water to drink.

Because I’d needed her.

The way that I still need her.

“I won’t let you fall,” I tell her. In more ways than one.

And then we’re moving together. She struggles at first, no doubt because her ankles are weak. I order her to push with her thighs, to let her feet just be the vehicle that brings her forward. Her hand stays in mine until I grab two hockey sticks and hand her one. “Take it.”

She does so with a worried grimace. “Weren’t you ever told not to hand a weapon over to a woman?”

I laugh, loudly. “You gonna beat me with the stick, Zoe?”

“I’ve certainly thought about it,” she grumbles. She stabs the hook of the stick into the ice like a pillar to ground herself. But it has the opposite effect—the abrupt downward thrust has her legs shaking, her skates moving, and the next thing I know, Zoe has slid down the stick like a stripper on a pole.

But with less elegance, that’s for sure.

“I think I need to call it a day,” she says, staring up at the rink’s ceiling as she lays comatose on the ice. “My vanity can’t take another wipeout.”

I crouch down beside her. “You didn’t do half-bad.”

“But it wasn’t half-good, either.” She sounds so miserable that I can’t help myself. I touch her. My fingers brush her exposed collarbone, drifting up to the underside of her chin. Her breath stutters out against the rough pads of my fingers when I skim her lips, pressing my thumb to the center of her lower lip, tugging down.

Jesus. I want her.

I’ve always wanted her, from the very first moment we were introduced so long ago.

“Andre?” she whispers.

Does she want me? That’s the question at hand here. I’ve told her no. I’ve told her that we aren’t ever going to happen again. Less than thirty days later, and I’m willing to renege on all of that just for one single taste of her lips.

One taste will never be enough.

No, but it’ll have to do.

I pull my hand away, more so because I don’t need anyone thinking that we’re doing something that we shouldn’t.

“Tell me you want this, too.” My voice drops. “Tell me that I’m not alone in this, Zo. That I’m not the only one going crazy with fucking wanting you.”

Mouth lifting in a small smile, she says, “Language. There’re kids around.”

“What I want to do to you involves a lot of language.”

Her brow arches. “And other stuff?”

“Hell, yes, and other stuff.”

With her hair fanned out around her head, she’s got to be cold on top of the ice. But all she does is watch me, touch the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip. I nearly come just at that. My body roars to life, demanding, wanting.

“As friends?” she asks. “Are we doing this as friends . . . with benefits?”

No. Being friends with her isn’t enough, not for me. I feel like a starving man, willing to take whatever scraps she can give me. It’s more than just the sex, though I want that too with her. I need . . . Fuck, what I want and need are two different things. I need her friendship, her smile, the way she looks at me as though she’s the only person who can read me, the only person who truly cares to. But if friends with benefits is what it will take to warm her up to the thought of being with me—really being with me—then that’s fine. I’ll roll with it . . . for now. After everything, I don’t want to spook her and send her running in the opposite direction when our relationship is already so fragile. “Yeah,” I tell her slowly, “if that’s what you want.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Just flicks her gaze away. Then, “Not here. I don’t want . . . I don’t want to do a repeat of last time.”

I know what she means immediately. We aren’t going to have sex again where someone could find us. That I agree on fully.

“After the event. I’ll take you home, and I’ll—”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “Language, Andre.”

“Fine, fine.” I pull back, my hands going to hers so that I can help her into a sitting position. “But the minute I have you alone, you’re mine.”

I just wish it could be for longer than a single night.

I never thought I’d say this, but friends with benefits just isn’t enough for me. Take it slow, I warn myself, take it slow.

There’s the root of the problem, though—at the end of the day, “slow” isn’t a word in my vocabulary. But to have Zoe as mine? It’s time to leave my impulsiveness at the door. I don’t have another choice if I want her to look at me as anything more than a coldhearted asshole.