Page 64 of Shattered On Ice

I keep an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, pulling him tightly against my side. We aren't going to leave through separate exits tonight. We won't drive separate cars, or hide behind the locked door of a therapy office. Together we walk down the tunnel, leaving the ghosts on the ice exactly where they belong, while finally stepping out into the light.

Twenty-six

Knight

Westin’s house has always felt like a showroom. A sterile, modern box where he kept his clothes and slept in between practices and games. But the second he unlocks the front door and ushers me in tonight, the atmosphere completely changes. It’s a blank canvas for us to paint our future on.

He kicks the door shut behind us, the deadbolt sliding home with a heavy, definitive thud. No one is sneaking in. I don't have to sneak out. The silence of the house isn't suffocating anymore. It’s a clean slate. Westin drops his keys on the pristine glass table in the entryway. The chaotic roar of the arena, the flashing cameras, the chirps from the locker room all fade into fuzzy nothingness. There’s no hockey here. There’s only the massive, beautiful man stepping toward me, filling this empty house with a heat that makes my pulse hammer in my throat.

The first brush of his fingers against my collarbone ignites my skin, sending a wave of heat dancing along my limbs, making me moan. It’s reverent and gentle, but the look in his eyes tells me it won't stay that way for long. We both want this too badly. I hook my fingers through his belt loops and pull him closer, looking up into his face, scanning for any signs of lingering trauma or triggers ready to snap.

My brain is still caught in a clinical circuit, analyzing his reactions, cataloging the massive psychological shift he just underwent on the ice, and after.

“Wes, are you sure you're not crashing from the endorphin high?” I ask hesitantly, voice trembling as his hands slide to my waist while I’m unable to put the therapist away just yet. “The somatic release you experienced in the tunnel alone could lead to a secondary—”

“Knight,” he murmurs, cutting me off with a kiss to my lips. His voice is a low, gravelly vibration that instantly short-circuits my prefrontal cortex, sending my brain offline. He cups my jaw, sweeping his thumb along my cheek. “I’m okay. Fuck, I’m so much better than okay. And I’m safe. You don't have to fix me right now, baby.”

The breath leaves my lungs in a ragged gasp. For months I’ve carried the agonizing weight of his recovery on my shoulders. I’ve policed every word, every touch, every instinct. But looking into his clear, steady hazel eyes now, I realize he’s right. The crisis is over. Dr. Stephens is officially off the clock. I let my head fall forward, resting against his chest and inhaling deeply, my lungs filling with freedom, the clean scent of his body wash, and the pressed game day suit he changed into after he showered.

A thick finger slides under my chin, tipping my face up to meet his.

“I’ve been dying for these lips.” His growl reverberates in the minuscule space that remains between us as his mouth moves against mine before he even finishes speaking. He traces the seam of my lips with his tongue, parting his way inside and tasting me with a moan.

A low, desperate sound tears from his throat, vibrating against my mouth. There’s nothing polite about this. His teeth graze my lower lip, fingers biting into my hips with a claiming, territorial grip that forces me to abandon all civility. He kisses me like he’s starving, devouring my mouth, as if trying to make up for months of sensory deprivation in a single breath. We spent half a year starving; of course we’re tearing into each other now.

I smile against his lips, my fingers brushing against the stubble on his cheeks.

“You feel so good,” I murmur, my words swallowed by his eager mouth.

“You feel like home,” he rasps, lips moving to my neck as he bends and lifts me into his arms.

He doesn't even make it three steps down the hall before he crowds me against the wall. The cool drywall against my back is a shocking contrast to the absolute raging furnace of his body pressing flush against mine. I wrap my legs around his hips, anchoring myself to him as I look down into his face. The impenetrable All-Star mask is completely gone. There is no armor left. His hazel eyes are stripped bare, painfully open and honest, inviting me into the deepest, darkest parts of his heart.

“Oh, Wes,” I croon, unable to stop myself from falling even harder for him. “I love you.”

I didn't know if I would ever get to say it again. I didn't know if he understood that when I said it the first time, I meant it with my whole chest. Saying it now feels like blowing open the locked door to the dark room I’ve kept myself in and feeling sunshine again.

He stops peppering my neck with heated kisses and slowly raises his head to meet my eyes. “Say it again. Please,” he rumbles, voice pleading.

“I love you,” I repeat softly, tangling my fingers in his hair and resting my forehead against his. “I love you so much I ache with it. I’ve missed you so much despite seeing you more often than we were before. It was so hard not to touch you, to put up those walls and have to lock down my feelings into something appropriate.”

Westin’s eyes close as his entire body shudders, arms tightening around me. “I love you more than words can even begin to describe. But I’m better with actions, anyway. Let’s take care of that ache and remember the way we fit together.”

He turns us, walking through the house to his bedroom, where he lays me gently on his big bed. It’s been so long since I was here last. Some far-off hookup where things began to change for us with our first overnight. He unlocked something in me, a connection to a primal, base part of myself I’d never expected or encountered before him. A thrill goes through me, anticipation joining the love and excitement as my entire body lights up.

He drags his hands down my body, reverently caressing each part as he begins to undress me in layers. I lift and help him, kicking out of my pants and tossing my shirt as he masterfully removes his suit and sets it over the bench at the end of the bed. I lie back on my elbows, watching as the final piece of his clothing—and his armor—is shed. He stands before me, stripped down and still one of the most powerful men I’ve ever encountered.

His hands are a revelation. For the last several months, I have watched his hands shake. I’ve watched them go numb, fumble, and curl into defensive fists. But as he crawls over me and presses me into the mattress, there’s absolutely zero hesitation. His hands are perfectly, flawlessly steady.

He spans my hips, his massive, callused palms anchoring me to the bed. He’s huge, a solid wall of hard muscle and undiluted power hovering over me in the dark. Ten years ago, another man used his size to make Westin feel powerless, and then Westin felt like a monster when he finally caught up with the trauma months ago. I reach up, tracing the thick muscles of his shoulder, pulling him down until his weight settles heavily over me.

“I love how strong you are,” I whisper fiercely against his lips. “You make me feel so damn safe.”

A violent shudder wracks his big frame. The last lingering ghost dissolves under the truth of my words.

He cradles my face in his hands, staring at me with wonder lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains. “You’re a fucking gift, and I’m never letting you go. Don't you ever try to get rid of me again, because I won't have it. This is it, beautiful. It’s me and you from here on out, got it?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I want this.”