Page 79 of Ice Princesses
The deck creaks softly under her weight as she plants one hand beside my shoulder.
Up close, she smells like sunshine and grass and the faint citrus of whatever shampoo she uses.
My pulse trips over itself.
“You came all the way up here,” she says, voice softer now, almost amused. “Unannounced.” Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Then back up. “Just to… what?”
The question is teasing, but something about the way she’s looking at me makes it feel like a challenge.
I swallow. “To talk.”
Her laugh is quiet.
“Terrible answer.”
And then she leans in.
Slow enough that I feel it coming, slow enough that I could step away if I wanted to.
Her mouth brushes mine first, light and exploratory, like she’s checking whether I’ll bolt. When I don’t, the kiss deepens slightly, warmer now, the kind of unhurried confidence that makes my knees feel suspiciously unreliable.
Her hand shifts to my waist, steadying rather than trapping.
The control is still there. But it’s gentler than I expected.
When she pulls back, it’s only far enough that her forehead almost touches mine.
“Hi,” she says softly, like we just started this conversation.
My brain is completely useless. Isabella continues down my throat, peppering small, tender kisses on the soft skin there. She kisses my shoulder, then my collarbone.
“You’re impossible,” I manage.
Her grin returns immediately.
“You showed up at my house,” Isabella says, brushinganother slow kiss against the corner of my mouth. “What did you expect was going to happen?”
My shoulders loosen. Which is new.
Two months ago, the idea of confiding anything to Isabella Pierce would have felt ridiculous. She represents the system I hate so much. The legacy. Everything about this sport that never quite made room for people like me.
Now she’s barefoot in her backyard, kissing me like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Life is strange.
Her mouth finds mine again—short, warm—like she has nowhere else to be. My hand ends up on her waist without me remembering the moment it got there.
Behind her, the aspens rustle softly. It’s the only sound in the yard.
“Princess…”
She answers by pressing another kiss to my jaw, slower this time, like she’s deliberately interrupting the thought before it can form.
Then she pulls back just enough to study my face.
She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t fill the silence. She simply waits, patient and still, like she’s resetting her skate before the music starts.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” she says eventually.
