“Holy shit, Porter,” Kennedy—one of our trainers—commented, his eyebrows raised as he leaned in closer to the scale. “You gained fifteen pounds since last season.”

“You what?” Lukas turned from his own scale. “Too many brownies?”

I flipped the middle finger at him.

“No, he’s good,” Kennedy said, shaking his head as he wrote down my stats. “It’s all muscle. He’s down to eight percent body fat.”

“Well then, fuck you.” Lukas looked over Max’s shoulder—another of our trainers. “Mine is all muscle, too.”

Max chuckled. “You only gained a pound, and still staying at seven percent body fat.”

Lukas smirked. “Lean, mean, and ready to be seen.”

I shook my head. “That is not how that goes.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

“Okay, you two are done. Head over to the bike station. VO2 Max test is next,” Kennedy told us, crooking his finger at Noble and Connor, who had just finished being taped.

Fitness day was anything but fun, but I wasn’t sweating it like some of the older players were. Being taped, weighed, measured, tested, and generally evaluated for our comparative physical fitness levels from last season was taxing, but I never altered my workout from the season. Sure, I had days where I maxed out my calories and ate a few things I shouldn’t, but that only happened when I was with Elliott.

Or Shea.

The taste of brownies filled my mouth as if I’d just licked her fingers clean. Damn, it had been two weeks since I’d kissed her, and I was jonesing for another hit of Shea. We’d seen each other a few times when I picked up Elliott, and she’d even joined us when we hit up the Museum of Pop Culture.

She’d narrowed her eyes at me when I’d suggested she let Elliott join the mini-Sharks, a local, developmental junior hockey league. I’d backed out of her apartment with my hands raised.

“Did you see the new crop of rookies?” Lukas asked as we walked through the training facility’s rehab room to the row of bikes that lined up to way more machinery than cycling should require.

“Something like thirty-four tryouts, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yep. The three we drafted, and then more than a few hopefuls.” He rolled his neck, stretching the muscles.

“You’re not nervous, are you? Last time I checked you’re our leading scorer as of last season.” I watched Zbrowski and Haversham finish their ride, both ripping off their masks as their time trial expired.

Those were two guys who should be worried.

“No, of course not. You?” His eyes flickered sideways at me.

“Nope. They wanted me for a reason, and I won’t let them down.” I was a damn good defenseman, and they’d fought hard in the trade to bring me here. I wasn’t stupid.

“Right. Then two of those twenty jerseys are ours.”

“Damn straight.”

There were twenty-three players allowed on an NHL playing roster, but only twenty would dress for games. Eighteen skaters, two goalies. Everyone else the Sharks would decide to sign would go on one of the reserve lists, whether they were injured, or sent down to the minors to skate their game up until they were ready to play.

I sure as fuck wasn’t being sent anywhere besides the Sharks’ locker room. Period.

Our turn came, and we both strapped into the bikes, dealing with the obnoxiousness of being hooked up to the machines.

Chloe placed masks that would measure out oxygen output over our noses and mouth, and adjusted the resistance.

“Damn, I wouldn’t want to be you,” Lukas said, his voice distorted by the mask as he watched her increase mine. It was meant to sit at nine percent of your body’s mass.

I eyed his skinny legs. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be you, either.”

“Hey, lean is good.”

“If you say so.”

Chloe clucked her tongue at us. “Boys, boys. Shut it and get ready to bike. Pedal as hard as you possibly can for the next thirty seconds, and yes, I do reserve the right to mock you after the results.”

Oh, it was on.

The fact that Chloe-- our physical trainer—was married to Bently Rogers only made her that much more prone to give us shit. We all loved her for it.

By mid-afternoon, I was smoked. Exhausted. Ready for bed, which was pretty much geriatric.

As I walked out to my car, my phone rang.

I cringed as I slipped it out of my back pocket, praying it wasn’t another plea from Nat to talk to her. I would have thought that seven months of radio silence would have given her the fucking hint, but nope.

My agent’s name flashed across the screen, and I swiped to answer the call.

“Hey, Eden,” I said as I unlocked my car.

“Hey, Hud,” she answered.

“Well, you don’t sound pissed off, so that’s a good sign for whatever reason you’re calling me.” I threw my bag into the back of the G-Wagon and shut the hatch.

“I don’t only call you when I’m pissed,” she reprimanded.

“Yeah. You do.” She was a ball-buster, which was why I’d chosen her when presented with a plethora of agent options. It had jack and shit to do with the fact that she was beautiful, and everything to do with the ferocity with which she promised to go after my contract negotiation.

And damn, she’d always gotten me a sweet deal, which was why I always recommended her to everyone I cared about.

“Whatever. Listen. I got a call from Langely—”

I groaned. The Sharks’ resident PR rep was a giant pain in my ass, and enough to make me consider just hiring my own like some of the other guys had.

“Oh, stop,” Eden sighed. “Anyway, she’s really happy that you’ve kept your face out of the tabloids since the incident outside of Connor’s.”

“Well, yay.” I climbed into my car and cranked the ignition. Damn, it was hot in here. The weather was unseasonably warm for this time of year.

“You know you already scored that endorsement deal with Center Ice, but there are a couple of other fish that have been swimming, looking for a bite. But, your lack of media presence is...difficult for them.”

“I’m not doing interviews, Eden. Never have. Never will.”

“Oh, come on! The Dorsal Club is an amazing piece of PR. Why won’t you just do a little media spot to promote it?”

My stomach turned.

“And use those kids to raise my media profile? Thank you, no.”

“Not exactly. Maybe consider doing one about why those programs are important to you. You sank millions into that facility, and it should do something for you.”

“It has,” I seethed, pulling out of the parking lot.

“You know what I mean. I’m on your side. I’m not saying to parade one of the kids on camera. I’m talking about showing that you’re more than just the Shark’s bruiser. If you don’t want to, I completely support you and always have. I know you’re a private person. But I took a call today, and I really think you’d be an amazing fit…”

She trailed off, and my hands gripped the wheel.

I loved Eden, but every once in a while, the money came first, which was her job, and I had to remind her that the money didn’t really mean shit to me.

My mom was taken care of—set for life with everything I’d invested for her during my first few seasons.

My brother...hell, Maddox was set all on his own accord.

I had enough money to live the rest of my life comfortably. It was ethics and morals that spoke to me, and nothing else.

“Just say it, Eden. What call did you take?”

She sucked in a breath, which had my jaw locking.

“Look, I know you’re private about your past. I get it. But the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence really needs a spokesman, and you would be—”

“No.”

I hung up the phone and almost threw it before I remembered how much that damn thing cost. I might have a shit ton of money, but wasting it was an asshole move.

Fuck that.

That is the reason I avoid the media.

My past was just that...mine. And I wasn’t bringing my mom into the spotlight, or my brother. My story wasn’t anything special. He wasn’t anything special. I wasn’t anything inspiring. I was a fucking cautionary tale.

My index finger rubbed at the scar that bisected my eyebrow—something that always seemed to happen when I was confronted with my past. With what put it there.

How the fuck could Eden even think I would want to expose my mom like that? She was even more private than I was. There was nothing I could add to the conversation that would help, and the cost-to-benefit ratio just wasn’t there.

It never was when my mom was a cost.

My phone rang again, and I hit the receive button on my steering wheel. “No, Eden. There’s zero fucking chance I’m going to do it, so just forget about it. My mom is off limits, and so is whatever story I have that involves her. Understand?” My voice was raised by the time I finished.

“Um. Well…”

Shea’s voice filled my car, and I could have kicked myself for not looking at the damned caller ID before picking up.

“Shea?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“Yeah, I’m guessing this is a bad time?” Her voice softened. “You sound...occupied.”

“Nope, just thought you were my agent calling back after I hung up on her. I wasn’t polite about it.” I turned onto the street that led to the penthouse, navigating traffic with ease.

“Oh. Have to admit, I was curious as to who Eden was,” she admitted.

That brought the corners of my mouth upward. “Jealous?”

“What? Me? No. I have nothing to be jealous of. Sheesh.”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. So what’s up, Shea?”

“I’ve got a roast in the oven, which is pretty much the only thing I can make well, and it should be done in about thirty minutes if you wanted to come over for dinner?” Her voice pitched higher with every word until she was almost squeaking.

I pulled over into my street-side space in front of my building. It was something I never used, always choosing to park beneath the building, but Shea had stumped me.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Sure. I mean, Elliott is going to be here, of course, if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

God, she sounded nervous. Flustered. Not like Elliott’s mom calling her Big to coordinate a meetup. She sounded...like a woman, inviting a man to dinner, and there was a huge difference.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but a little. Are you asking me over as Elliott’s Big? Or as…”

The only reason I knew she hadn’t hung up were the breaths I heard on the other end. Shaky, but steady.

“Shea?” I prompted. I’d take whatever she wanted to give, but I needed a baseline to know where I stood.

“Just come over, Porter. Have dinner. Hang out. The rest will just...sort itself out, right?”

She sounded so damn hopeful, but I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of rejection tingle down my spine. How was it that the one woman I wanted, the one I was borderline obsessed with, didn’t want me?

Or rather, wouldn’t let herself want me. I’d felt her want, her pure desire when I’d kissed her. Felt her pulse pound, her heart gallop, her breath come in those short, breathy gasps. Her legs had wrapped around me, pulled me close, and her hips had rolled into mine with pure, sensual abandon.

Yeah, her body was on board.

Her mind? Not so much.

“Porter?”

Just once, I wanted to hear her call me Hudson. To see past the name on the back of my jersey, the reason I’d been hired, the punches I’d thrown both professionally and off the record. I wanted her to see me.

“Let me shower, and I’ll be right over,” I answered. Because the truth was, I would take whatever scraps she was willing to give until she saw past my size, my job, my past.

We hung up, and I pulled off the fastest shower my apartment had ever seen. I grabbed a pair of jeans, worn concert tee, threw a hat on backward and headed out the door. Passing the other cars I owned, I climbed back into my car. There was no need for Shea to freak out over material shit. That would only widen the already gaping chasm between us on her perceived income difference scale.

Within a half hour of her call, I was at her apartment, climbing three flights of stairs. My quads screamed from my earlier workout, but I told them to shut up. It was just another workout, right? And those never hurt.

What hurt was seeing a small, elderly woman carrying a bag up those same stairs.

“Ma’am?” I asked softly, hoping I wouldn’t scare her. “May I help you with those?”

Her head snapped back to see me coming up behind her on the second flight. Her shrewd gaze looked me up and down, instantly appraising my threat level.

“I’m Hudson Porter. I’m in the building to see Shea Lansing and Elliott,” I answered her unspoken question.

Her eyes widened. “Wilma. Here,” she said, thrusting the paper bag at me. “They’re my next-door neighbors. Good girls. Funny thing, Shea didn’t mention knowing a hunk like you.”

I’d never been one for blushing, but I almost did. Instead, I took the bag in one arm and offered her my other.

Shea opened her door as I got Wilma to her door, which was across the hall from Shea.

“This one is a keeper,” Wilma told Shea. “He’s kind. You need that. Plus, great ass.”

Shea’s mouth dropped open at the same time mine did, and Wilma just threw me a wink. “If I were only forty years younger, darlin.” Then she shut the door in our faces.

We both burst into laughter.

We ate dinner with easy conversation, Elliott leading most of it. The kitchen table fit the three of us perfectly, and even though I could tell Shea was nervous, she tried like hell not to show it.

The kitchen was the exact opposite of mine. Not that I didn’t love my sleek design, modern appliances, and general view, but Shea’s kitchen had something mine didn’t: a heartbeat.

There were pictures of Shea and Elliott taped to the fridge and framed on the walls, hanging beside artwork that never would have passed with my interior designer, but definitely got my highest marks. Sitting here felt like living within their history, with stories all around me.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Elliott said as she carried our dishes to the butter-yellow sink a few feet away.

“Hmmm?” Shea asked, leaning back in her chair and narrowing her eyes slightly. Apparently, the wait-until-Mom’s-fed trick had been played before.

“So, I looked at the website, and I’m honestly a little old to start, but there’s a rec team—house level—”

Oh shit, she was going for it.

“That starts in two weeks. Some of the kids have been playing for a couple of years already, but I know with Porter helping me, I could catch up.” She looked at Shea with expectant eyes, but her little fingers turned white with the death grip she had on the back of her chair.

“Rec for what?” Shea questioned, her eyes narrowing.

Elliott’s eyes flew to mine in an obvious plea for help.

I flashed her a half smile but gave her a look that she was on her own with this one. I’d help her with whatever she wanted, but only with Shea’s permission.

“Hockey,” she finally squeaked out.

Shea sighed and rubbed the skin between her eyebrows. “You know how I feel about this.”

“Yes, and you’re wrong.” Elliott’s eyes flew wide as she realized what she’d said. “And by that, I mean...misinformed.”

Shea’s lips pursed, and her posture stiffened.

“You know, I love an awkward family dinner as much as the next guy, but maybe I shouldn’t be here for this,” I suggested, backing my chair away from the table.

Shea’s hand snapped out, grasping my arm. “Oh, no. You’re the reason she’s decided hockey is the end-all-be-all, so you’ll be staying.”

“I need you for backup!” Elliott added.

I was fucked.

“To be honest, she told me she loved hockey way before I ever showed up on scene,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

Shea shot me a glare.

“Right. Okay, so you think hockey is too dangerous? That I’ll get hurt.”

Shea started to open her mouth, but Elliott kept right on going.

“Hockey is actually the tenth most dangerous sport a kid can play, according to the Seattle Journal of Pediatric Safety.” Elliott put a printed article on the table.

Where the hell had that come from? Was she a practicing magician, now, too?

Shea didn’t even glance at it.

“I’m honestly safer on the ice than I am on a basketball court, or a soccer field, or in a swimming pool. Don’t even get me started on trampolines. Those things are death traps, according to that article.” Elliott bit her lip nervously.

Shea didn’t look away from her daughter. Not for one second.

After what felt like the most awkward eternity ever, she finally spoke. “It’s not the injuries. I’ve always worried about you getting hurt, and I always will. That doesn’t mean I’m going to wrap you in bubble wrap and hand you a dollhouse. I know that’s not the girl you are.”

“But…” Elliott shifted her weight from side to side.

“But hockey teaches...violence. It teaches you to hurt your opponent. To hit them the hardest you can. To knock them down. It encourages fighting, Elliott, conditions its players to beat people to the point that they pay millions of dollars to someone who knows how to fight on the ice, and that’s just...I can’t condone that.”

My spine stiffened. With one sentence, she’d summed up why she was afraid to be with me, afraid I’d take it too far, that I wouldn’t stop when she asked. She thought I’d been taught, conditioned for violence because of hockey. Like I didn’t have a choice anymore.

“Porter’s not like that.” Elliott shot me another pleading look.

“Looks like your mom has already decided what I’m like.”

Shea sucked in a breath. “That’s...that’s not what I meant, Porter.”

I locked my jaw to keep the words in, because there were some things kids didn’t need to hear, and anything going on between Shea and me—good or bad—couldn’t spill over onto Elliott.

I pushed away from the table and stood, tucking the chair under it. Fuck. Was I supposed to leave now? Help with the dishes? What did someone do in this situation?

I’d never had this problem with...her. Natalie had always wanted me because I wore a jersey. She hadn’t just accepted it, she’d encouraged it, supported it, because it was that jersey and the status it gave her that she’d wanted.

How ironic that the very first thing that attracted me to Shea was what would keep us at this impasse.

“Porter, please,” Shea stood. “I…” Her eyes searched mine, wide and apologetic. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Honestly.”

“Do you think I’m violent?” I asked softly.

“Sometimes,” she answered just as quietly. “I’m sure during games, you’d have to be.”

“I’m aggressive. Yes, I’m paid to end fights, or even start them, but there’s no malevolence. Not in the way you’re thinking. It’s...sport. I’m not just some dumb oaf who beats people. Have you ever been to a hockey game?” Sure, it was rough, and fights could get mean, but I couldn’t see how she’d honestly think we were giant monsters on skates if she’d ever been to a game.

She shook her head, her eyes dropping to the floor.

“Then don’t you think you’re judging something you know nothing about?”

Her gaze flew to mine, narrowed and challenging.

“You always tell me not to knock something until I try it,” Elliott jumped in.

Shea and I continued our stare-down, neither of us budging.

“Look, you have every right not to let her play hockey. She’s your daughter. I don’t even need to tell you that. But if you’re not letting her play because of some misconception, then that’s what I take issue with.”

She finally sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “All right. Tell me what I’m missing.”

Elliott bounced in excitement but wisely kept quiet.

“Hockey at Elliott’s age is regulated for safety, pure and simple. I’m not just talking about the injuries that can happen with any contact sport—broken bones, concussions, sprains, all that—”

“Remember, hockey is number ten!” Elliott interjected.

“I’ve got this,” I told her with a wink.

She grinned in answer.

“What kind of regulations?” Shea asked, folding her arms under her breasts.

“She’d most likely be a Squirt. That’s like one level up from the level where they just chase the puck around. She can’t even check—hit people against the boards to get the puck. It’s all about skating, skill, shooting, and teamwork. Just like any organized sport, it’s about working together, listening to your coach, moving the ball, puck, whatever. We just do it on skates. You can’t hit people from behind. You can’t trip them. Can’t hook them with your stick. Can’t haul off and hit anyone. It’s a bunch of kids out there learning how to play the game.”

Shea bit her lip, her eyes flickering toward Elliott.

“It’s a great game, honestly. Can it get rougher at the higher levels? Sure. But we’re talking about nine and ten-year-olds, not college players, or even high schoolers. If you want to see a pro game, I’ll give you my family seats any time you want them once the season starts, and that will give you a good idea of what the sport grows into, but that’s also like judging elementary school soccer with the World Cup.”

The doorbell rang, saving us all.

“I bet that’s Charlie!” Elliott exclaimed.

Shea nodded. “Right. Grab your bag, and I’ll answer the door,” she told Elliott.

Elliott shot me a smile and raced from the kitchen, around the corner, and into the hallway that led to her bedroom.

Various car ride conversations had told me that Charlie was Elliott’s best friend whose mom worked with Shea.

Leftover energy from my quasi-fight with Shea left my hands jittery. If I’d been at my own house, I would have shot pucks, or gone for a quick run to release the tension.

Instead, I started on the dishes, not that there were many. Shea was a clean-as-you-cook kind of girl, and damn did I like that about her. I honestly liked everything about her except the fact that she didn’t like everything about me.

Then again, neither did I.

I made quick work of the dishes as Shea carried on a conversation in the living room, just out of sight of where I stood. As I placed the last plate in the dish drainer, I heard a gasp behind me.

“Oh, hi,” a woman said, obviously startled.

I turned after hanging the dish towel from the oven handle.

“Hi,” I responded.

Her brown eyes flew as big as pucks, and she dusted her hands down her denim and T-shirt combo like she was self-conscious.

I offered my hand. “Hudson Porter. Nice to meet you.”

“Grace Wilborn. I’m Charlie’s mother.”

Shea appeared over her shoulder. “It’s right here,” she said as she slid past her. Opening the first cabinet, she pulled a pink thermos down. “She left it after the last sleepover, and I knew if I didn’t snag it right now, I’d forget.”

“Oh, thanks!” Grace took the thermos from Shea, her eyes still on me. “You’re Elliott’s Big, right? The hockey player?” She flashed Shea a look that suggested they’d spoken about the hockey player on more than one occasion.

“I am,” I confirmed.

“She says great things about you.”

“She says wonderful things about your daughter, too,” I told her.

Grace’s eyes lit up, erasing a few lines of exhaustion on her face. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy.”

“Ready!” Elliott shouted as a couple sets of running footsteps came to a halt in the living room.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to keep them tonight? I can absolutely do a sleepover,” Shea offered.

“Oh, no. They’ve been looking forward to this all week. Besides, you know how they are, practically entertaining themselves.”

“Amen,” Shea agreed, and the women shared a secret smile.

Elliott bounced into the room, hugged Shea, and to my surprise...me.

“Thank you for talking to her about the hockey stuff,” she whispered in my ear when I’d leaned down to hug her back.

“Anytime, kiddo. Have a great sleepover.”

Within moments, they left, and Shea and I were alone, facing each other in her living room.

“I should probably get going.” I offered Shea the out, even though the last thing I wanted to do was leave.

What I wanted to do was to suck the last half hour back into whatever dimension it had come from. I wanted to erase our fight and go back to the effortless, easy feeling we’d had during dinner.

But it would have happened sooner or later.

“You could stay,” Shea offered quietly. “I mean, for a drink or something. I might have the world’s oldest bottle of tequila in the freezer. I think I bought it when Elliott was five or something.” She gave me a quick, forced smile, but her eyes lingered on mine, and it was the longing that kept me there.

“I actually don’t drink.” I tucked my thumbs in my pockets.

“Oh. You don’t?”

“Shocked?”

“A little, I guess. Not that I think hockey players all drink or something. God, I’m so sorry. That...that escalated in there way faster than I could seem to stop it.” She tucked a strand of her hair back behind her ear. She’d opted for contacts again today, and though I missed the sexy librarian vibe her glasses gave her, she was just as beautiful without them.

“When I was a teenager, I read that addiction can be genetic. That there was something in the genes that made someone predisposed to an addictive personality, whether it was drugs or alcohol, or even sex. So I decided I’d never drink or do drugs, ever. I wasn’t going to chance that I’d be one of the statistics.”

“But the sex was okay?” she smirked.

“Well, there are some things a man can live without, and some…” I shrugged, a smile forming on my lips.

“Some you can’t live without. Yeah, yeah, I know. Nine years, remember?”

“All too clearly,” I replied.

Just like that, the space between us grew tense, thick with possibility. Her eyes dropped to my lips, studying them with such intensity that I felt her stare like a caress.

“As for the rest, don’t worry,” I quickly said, trying to distract myself. As much as I’d loved kissing her before, she obviously hadn’t been ready for it, and I wasn’t about to push.

“The rest?” her head tilted to the side, her attention still fixated on my mouth.

My tongue swept over my suddenly dry lower lip, and her pupils dilated.

Fuck, she wasn’t making this easy.

“The hockey stuff.”

She blinked, then met my eyes again. “Oh, right. Yeah. You’re right. I can’t really judge what I haven’t seen. That’s not fair.”

“I get it.” Unable to stop myself, I reached for one of her hands, and my thumb traced the lines on her palm.

“You do?”

I nodded, savoring the softness of her skin. This might be the only way she ever let me touch her.

“I could be wrong. But I think someone hurt you. And it’s up to you when and if you ever want to tell me who and how, or if I’m even right. But something forced you to build some pretty thick walls. And I don’t just mean the normal walls we build with failed relationships. I mean Great Wall of China-sized walls. Violence, in any matter, scares you, even more so when Elliott is involved, and you need to know it’s okay. I get it.”

Instead of pulling her hand back from mine, she leaned in, her empty hand resting on my chest. “You’re right.”

I nodded. “I didn’t want to be.”

She eyed my lips again, then my throat, and down the lines of my chest until she traced the logo on my shirt. “I feel safe with you,” she admitted. “That’s something I haven’t felt in...so long. And the last time I felt that with a man, it turned out that I...wasn’t.” She picked up my hands and held them by my wrists. “Your hands are beautiful, did you know that?”

“I’d never thought of them that way,” I said as she studied them. “They’re just my hands.”

“They’re capable of such amazing things. Driving Elliott to whatever adventure you planned, bringing me bubble tea, spiking a volleyball...setting my body on fire with nothing but a simple touch.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper.

Damn if I didn’t want to touch her now. It had been weeks, and I could still taste her, sweet and chocolatey on my tongue.

“They’re capable of wielding a hockey stick, and…” She swallowed.

“Fighting,” I supplied.

She nodded.

“Yeah, they are, but I’m in control of them, you know,” I teased. Her eyes shot to mine. “You’re always safe with me. I need you to know that. I know you think my job is the very thing you can’t stand, but I need you to know that hockey didn’t make me a monster—it kept me from becoming one. It taught me to channel that energy, to leave it all out there, to never let anger bottle up and become dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous to me.” It was the most honest she’d ever been with me. “You make me want things I shouldn’t want. You make me feel selfish. Possessive, even, and that’s just ridiculous because the only claim I have to you is that you’re Elliott’s Big, and you kissed me once.”

Just like I wanted to do right now. Over and over. Endlessly. If that was all she wanted, then I’d kiss her until our mouths were swollen and red, until we both ached. Hell, I’d kiss the woman until I died and be thankful for it.

“I’d have kissed you a hell of a lot more in the last two weeks if you’d given me the okay.” A corner of my mouth lifted.

“What? Really? I thought I’d freaked you out.”

I lifted one of my hands from her grasp and cupped her cheek. “It would take a lot more than you asking me to stop, than you drawing physical boundaries, to freak me out.”

“All I had to do was ask?”

“Yes.” Fuck, my voice dropped, which was the opposite of what my dick had decided to do.

“When you caught me at the end of the rock climb?” She ran her hand up my chest to rest on the side of my neck.

“Yes.” That moment had tested my restraint, but I’d passed.

“When we were at the yoga studio, and you helped me get into that twisty position?”

“Hell. Yes.” I hadn’t just wanted to kiss her, I’d wanted to peel those spandex pants off her body—they didn’t hide anything anyway—and put my tongue on her.

“Now?” Her question was breathless.

“More than I want air,” I answered.

She slowly took my hand and wrapped it around her waist. “Porter?”

“Shea?”

“Would you please kiss me?”

So polite, when everything I wanted to do to her was so very dirty.

I answered with my mouth on hers, kissing her softly, sucking on her bottom lip. “Is that what you want?”

She used her free hand to clench my shirt and tug me closer. “Almost.”

I kissed her harder, running my tongue along the seam of her lips, and when she parted them, gently teased that lower lip again, licking the tender strip of flesh just inside her lip.

“That closer?”

“Fucking. Kiss. Me,” she ordered, pulling at my neck to bring me lower.

I let her, hovering just above her lips, millimeters out of her reach, even with her on her toes. The anticipation was as excruciating as it was erotic.

“Porter!” she snapped, then swiped her tongue over my lower lip.

I almost broke. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d have Shea Lansing begging me to kiss her.

“Say my name,” I ordered.

“Porter,” she pled.

“No. My first name. I’ve never heard you say it.”

She blinked, and the lust raging in her eyes merged with a tenderness that made me want to hand her the keys to my soul.

“Hudson,” she whispered.

I groaned. What was it about the sound of my name on her lips that made me harder? More desperate to find out what her skin tasted like?

This time when she gently pulled on my neck, I lowered my head, bringing my mouth within reach of hers.

“Kiss me, Hudson,” she whispered against my lips.

I took her mouth in a long, drugging kiss, tangling my hand in the loose silk of her hair and my tongue with hers. She tasted even sweeter than I remembered.

She whimpered, tugging me closer until there were no spare inches between us, and the angle of our kiss bent my neck like a contortionist. I kissed her over and over, losing myself in the feel of her tongue, her curved waist under my hand, her breaths coming in stuttered gasps.

When she tugged again, trying to get a closer that didn’t exist, I let my hand drift to the curve of her ass, and waited for any sign of protest. When she only moaned, I squeezed the plump, round flesh, which only made her moan louder.

“Damn, Shea,” I muttered, then lifted her so I could kiss her at my level. She wrapped her legs around my waist, sank both of her hands in my hair where it curled at the nape of my neck, and then took my mouth as her own.

Her tongue was fire, burning me alive as she explored with little flicks and strokes, learning me the same way I’d already made a study of her.

She flat-out branded me, and I loved it.

I took back control, angling to kiss her deeper, holding her tighter to my body. She rubbed her breasts against my chest, seeking out friction that I was more than happy to give. Without breaking our kiss, I walked forward, then turned and sat in the middle of the couch, arranging her knees so she straddled me.

As she slid into my lap, her breath exhaled on a long sigh, her eyes both widening and turning a darker silver as she felt my erection pressing against her. I wanted her. There was no hiding that fact, and if it was too much, if it scared her, then it was better to know that now.

She rested her forehead against mine, as both of our hearts hammered a furious beat.

“You’re in control,” I assured her.

She took my lower lip in a long, sipping kiss. “What if I want to lose control?”

My dick jumped at the thought.

She flat-out fucking rubbed against me, her barely-there shorts doing nothing to block the heat her sweet body was putting off.

Her breath caught, and she rubbed again, letting a delicious moan slip free.

“God. Por—Hudson...that feels so good,” she moaned.

I gripped her hips, and instead of waiting for her to move, I slowly thrust up against her, using my cock and the seam of her shorts to elicit another moan from her.

I hadn’t dry-humped a girl since high school, but I would happily consider it my job to do nothing but that for the rest of my life if I had Shea in my arms.

“Hudson, please,” she pled, shifting her hips restlessly in my lap.

“What do you want, Shea?” I asked, barely recognizing the gravel in my voice.

“I don’t know,” she replied, frustration obvious in her tone.

Her hips swiveled above mine again, and I groaned. I knew exactly what her body wanted. It wanted me to unzip my jeans, free my cock, slip her shorts and panties to the side, and plunge inside her. Her body wanted to be filled, stroked over and over until all that pleasure peaked and she came so hard the entire apartment building would hear.

But what her mind wanted was a completely different situation, and I had a feeling she was more frustrated with the schism in herself than anything else.

I kissed her, thrusting my tongue rhythmically into her soft mouth the way I wanted to move inside her heat.

My control was on a tight but thin leash as she ground against me, taking my kiss, and giving back just as good as she got.

When this woman finally let go, she would be fire incarnate, and even though I suspected she might leave her share of scars on me, I was more than willing to let her.

Her hands drifted to my shoulders, squeezing the muscles there before drifting to my biceps and grinding down on my cock. “You’re huge...everywhere.”

“I’m proportionate,” I argued.

“That’s pretty much what I said,” she managed to say between kisses and gasps.

“Does it scare you?” I needed to know. Had to know.

“No,” she admitted. “I trust you.”

I nearly came right then and there.

“Fuck, Shea. I know you’re not ready for sex.” Even if her body was screaming for it. “You’re burning me alive.”

“I…” She swallowed. “You’re right. I just. God, I can’t ever remember feeling like this. I don’t think I’ve ever been this…” She licked her kiss-swollen lips, and it took everything in me not to kiss her senseless, until her mind gave in to the demands of her body.

“Turned on?” I supplied.

“Desperate,” she whispered, her eyes taking me in like I was something to be devoured.

It made me want to flip her to her back and show her exactly what being devoured was like.

Why the fuck not?

I gripped her ass and rocked up against her again, going slowly until her head fell back and she groaned low in her throat. That’s where my lips went next, to her neck, sucking the tender patches of skin and then kissing my way to her collarbone, left bare by the V-neck shirt she wore.

When I kissed the curves of her breasts, she grasped my head and tugged me closer. “God, yes.”

I lightly bit her pebbled nipple through the fabric of her shirt, and she cried out, so I gave the same attention to the other.

“Hudson, I’m dying.”

“You’re living,” I corrected her. Her body filled my hands, supple, soft, her temperature elevating with her pulse. “Let me make you come,” I begged against her breasts.

She whimpered, her grip turning almost painful in my hair.

“I won’t even remove a stitch of my clothing,” I promised. “Just let me take away your ache.”

Our eyes locked, need and something else...something sweeter and deeper passed between us.

“Let me show you how good we could be if you gave us a chance.”

She nodded slowly.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

A smile spread on her face. “I trust you,” she repeated.

“You’re in control,” I reiterated, needing her to know that I might hold her body, but she held the leash.

She nodded.

“You’ll stop me if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m already uncomfortable,” she declared, rubbing down on my cock again, making us both moan.

“Damn it, Shea, I’m doing my best here to go slowly. Now tell me you understand,” I bit out, my hands gentle on her breasts, at odds with my tone. I rolled and pinched her nipples, and she nodded.

“I’ll tell you. Just, God, Hudson. Please…”

Permission asked for and received.

I flipped her in one smooth motion, so it was her ass on the couch, and I slid to my knees in front of her.

Our kiss was molten, hotter than anything I’d ever experienced. It went beyond pleasurable to primal—necessary.

My fingers found the snap on her shorts, and I undid them, pausing to watch her reaction.

Her eyes showed a flash of nervousness, but she lifted her hips, letting me unzip the tiny things and slide them down her thighs.

“These are so fucking small.”

“They’re mid-thigh,” she argued.

“Well, these thighs have driven me mad all night,” I said against the soft skin above her knee. Then I took my lips higher and higher, hooking my hands under said thighs and gently parting them wider.

“Hudson,” she gasped as my tongue swirled over her inner thigh, running along the seam where skin met her—holy fuck me—black lace panties.

“Trust me?” I questioned, fully intent on stopping if she changed her mind.

“Yes.” Her nails bit into my scalp for emphasis.

Those beautiful, sexy, incredible panties came off, too, landing somewhere in the vicinity of her shorts.

“God. Damn.” I breathed in and out, pressing my dick into the base of the couch to keep control. “You’re… God Damn, Shea.”

Her thighs were smooth, creamy, and led to a sexy strip of hair that matched the auburn on her head. She was fire everywhere, and mine. All. Fucking. Mine.

I reached for her hips, my hands gripping the pale flesh roughly, and pulled her straight to my mouth.

Shea cried out as my tongue hit her clit.

“Stop?” I asked.

“Are you crazy?”

“Over you? Definitely.” I smirked up at her shocked expression and then set my mouth on her. Our eyes locked as ate her, using my tongue, my teeth, and my lips to drive her higher and higher.

She tasted like the sweetest wine, and I drank her up, lapping at every ounce of desire she gave me. I sucked her clit and her hips bucked.

“God! Hudson!” she cried, her pussy riding my mouth, grinding down on me, seeking the pressure and rhythm she needed. I held her still with my hands, drawing it out, keeping her on the verge.

Her thighs tightened around my head, the muscles in her stomach clenched.

She was winding tighter and tighter.

“So fucking sweet,” I growled against her pussy before thrusting my tongue inside her tight passage.

I pressed my thumb against her clit, rubbing it in circles as I thrust my tongue into her again and again, fucking her with my mouth.

Then I flicked her once, thrust deep, and she came, her body convulsing as she screamed out my name.

“Hudson!”

I kept at her, sliding my tongue in and out of her pussy as my fingers stroked her clit, until her body coiled into a second, more powerful orgasm.

She came again, her head thrashing on the couch, her voice breaking at the peak.

It was my name on her lips.

My mouth between her thighs.

My fingers and tongue bringing her to climax.

And yet, she was the one who owned me in that moment.

I licked her clean, savoring every second I had while she was open to me.

She was every fantasy come to life, and better than I could have ever imagined.

“You were right,” she mumbled with an orgasm-drunk smile, her fingers toying with my hair as I slid back up her body.

“Oh?” I asked, telling my dick to deflate.

Yeah, right.

The pain was so fucking worth it.

She kissed me lightly, then licked her lips, no doubt tasting herself.

“So much better than chocolate.”