Page 108 of Wild Card 13

His breath caught as he pulled me into his chest, wrapping both arms around me like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go. His heart hammered against my ear, and I let my eyes close, breathing him in—ice rink soap and coffee and everything I'd been too scared to reach for.

His hand left mine. The absence of it was a cold spot, immediate and sharp, and I felt the shift of his weight across the bench seat ashe leaned past me. The sleeve of his hoodie brushed my chest, and I caught the faint scent of him before his fingers found the knob. The dash lights died with a soft click, and the dark rushed in to fill every corner of the cab.

The only light left was the faint silver of the lake beyond the window, a ghost of a reflection. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't see anything.

His hand found mine again in the dark. Slid over my knuckles, threaded through my fingers, and squeezed. I felt the shudder in his grip. The darkness made it louder. Made every touch a question.

His breath hitched. "I'm terrified," he whispered, and the words landed like stones in the dark. "I don't know how to not screw this up."

I shifted closer, the seat groaning beneath me. I couldn't see his face, but I knew the shape of him in the dark—the broad shoulders, the jut of his jaw, the soft mess of his hair. I lifted my free hand and found his cheek, my fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone, the rough edge of his jaw. He leaned into my touch, and I felt the flutter of his eyelashes against my fingertips.

"Then don't think." The words came from somewhere deep, somewhere I hadn't known I was storing them. "Just be. With me. Right now."

His hand slid around my waist, pulling me until my chest pressed against his. The dark swallowed all distance, all space, until there was nothing but the heat of his body and the ragged rhythm of his breath against my ear. His lips found my forehead, soft and warm, and I felt the tremor run through him as he held me there, suspended in the black.

The lake lapped against the shore, steady and unhurried. Somewhere beyond the glass, the stars were still turning. But in the cab, there was only the dark, the weight of his arms, and the quiet sound of his heart beating against mine.

His hands moved before he did—a slow slide from where they'd been wrapped around me, palms dragging across the fabric of my sweater until they reached the hem. The motion was hesitant, each inch a question he was afraid to finish. I felt the calluses on his fingertips catch on the wool, and then the cold air hit my lower backas his thumbs slipped beneath, grazing the bare skin just above my jeans.

The touch was electric. A jolt that traveled up my spine, made me gasp against his collarbone. His hands stopped immediately, hovering there at the edge of my sweater, the heat of his palms radiating against my skin without quite touching. A question. A line he wouldn't cross without an answer.

The dark pressed in, thick as velvet, but I felt his breath on my forehead, felt the tension in his shoulders where my fingers had curled into his hoodie. His heart hammered against my ribs, and I realized he was waiting.

I shifted just enough to press my back into his palms. The movement was small, barely a nudge, but it said everything. His breath left him in a shudder, and then his hands were moving again, sliding upward, fingertips tracing the ridges of my spine like he was memorizing each one. The fabric of my sweater bunched around his wrists, and the cold air chased his touch, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the winter night.

His hands were rough in the best way—the rough of years on the ice, of taped sticks and cold mornings. But they moved like he was handling something sacred. His thumbs swept outward, following the curve of my ribs, and I felt the muscle in his forearms tense as he held himself back from taking more than I'd offered.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "Ty." His name came out broken, half a question I didn't know how to finish.

His hands stilled again. I felt his forehead press against mine, the heat of his breath mixing with mine in the dark. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, and his voice cracked on the last word. "If you want me to."

I didn't want him to. I wanted his hands everywhere—wanted to feel the shape of him in the dark, wanted to map the space between his shoulder blades with my fingers. But the word stuck in my throat, too big, too honest.

Instead, I tilted my chin up and found his mouth in the black. The kiss was blind, messy, my lips catching his lower lip before adjusting. He made a sound against my mouth—low and desperate.

His thumbs traced the curve of me, slow and reverent, mapping the swell where the lace met skin. The motion sent a ripple of sensationdown through my ribs, settling in my stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. I arched into his touch, and the dark swallowed my small gasp, gave it nowhere to go.

I wanted to feel his skin. Wanted the soft cotton of his hoodie gone. I found the hem, tugged it up an inch, felt the elastic of his waistband meet my knuckles. He understood, shifted back just enough to let me work, my fingers finding the warm strip of his stomach above his jeans, the trail of fine hair leading down.

He pulled the hoodie over his head in one motion. I heard the fabric rustle, the soft thud as it landed on the dash. I felt the heat of his bare chest radiating against my palms as I pressed them flat to his sternum. His heart hammered under my fingers. His skin was smooth beneath my palm until I found the faint ridge of the scar along his collarbone, the one I'd watched him shake off from the bleachers.

His hands found my sweater again, sliding the fabric up, inch by inch, and the cold air kissed every newly exposed inch of skin—my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive dip of my spine. I raised my arms, and the sweater left me, disappeared into the black.

He said my name again. Simple and fleeting. But the way he said it was as a prayer, a plea, a confession.

His hands traveled over my waist, thumbs pressing into the hollow of my hips, pulling me onto his lap—a slow, deliberate drag of denim and skin, my knees sinking into the bench on either side of his thighs. I straddled him in the dark, the heat of his body rising to meet mine.

Ty’s mouth moved down my throat. A breath, a brush of lips against the pulse point below my ear that sent a shudder cascading through me. His hands slid up my back, unhooked my bra with a clumsy, fumbling click. He pulled the lace away, let it fall into the dark, and I was bare against his chest, skin to skin, the only barrier gone.

The feeling was unbearable. The friction of his chest hair against my nipples, the heat of him seeping into every nerve ending I owned. I felt the hard line of him through his jeans, pressed against the inside of my thigh, and my body responded—a pulse of wet heat between my legs. His hands locked on my waist, holding me still, and his voice was wrecked.

"I want you," he said. "But I need you to tell me you want this." His thumbs pressed into the bone of my hip.

I took his hand from my hip and guided it down, past the button of my jeans, pressing his palm flat against the heat of me through the denim. The pressure was just shy of enough, and I felt his fingers curl against the seam, felt the tremor in his wrist.

"I want it," I said, and the words came out raw, scraped clean of hesitation. "I want you."

Ty’s breath left him in a rush—not the exhale of relief, but the sound of something breaking open inside his chest.