Page 91 of Keep Me Close

That realization has emotion swelling within me.

We stand in the charged quiet, my body draped in his jersey, his gaze locked on mine, as if he’s still trying to decide whether he’s stronger than the temptation standing before him.

Maybe he is.

Then again, maybe he isn’t.

Either way, I understand something now that I didn’t before.

It’s not a question of if Knox wants me.

It’s a question of how much.

32

Knox

As I stand here, soaking in the sight of Cheyenne in my jersey and nothing else, it hits me just how much trouble I’m in. Thousands of women have worn my number. I’ve seen them in the stands and on the Jumbotron while on the ice. At the Rail Yard, parties, and after nights I barely remembered the next morning.

None of them have ever meant a damn thing.

But this?

It’s everything.

Seeing Cheyenne in my jersey awakens something primal inside me, and the sound that rumbles up from my chest is caught somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“I think you might be trying to kill me,” I mutter.

With a tilt of her head, she smiles. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted.” She lifts her arms and the fabric rides higher up her thighs. “For me to wear your jersey.”

Not like this.

Not where I can see her bare legs beneath the hem. Not where the sight of my name encasing her body makes some possessive part of me sit up and take notice.

Before I realize it, I’m hooking an arm beneath her thighs to lift her up.

A startled laugh spills from her lips as she grabs my shoulders. “Knox⁠—”

“You’re the one who started this, Hollywood. Now I’m going to do what I’ve been dying to and finish it.”

I carry her across the room to the piano that sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where I was playing the night she wandered out half asleep. In hindsight, that was the moment things truly changed between us.

I set her on the polished surface, and the jersey bunches around her thighs.

She sucks in a breath, her green eyes darkening. “Are you finally done pretending?”

Fuck.

She’s right. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve been pretending I could keep this contained. Pretending I could want her without doing anything about it. Pretending that if I held out long enough, I could keep this from turning into something real. But standing here with her in my jersey while she stares at me with that look in her eyes?

I can’t do it any longer.

“Yeah, Hollywood. I am.”

My hands slide up her thighs as she fists the front of my shirt, dragging me closer. The second my mouth slants across hers, she opens for me. The kiss is deep and hungry, but there’s something else in it too.

Relief, maybe.