Page 91 of Cross the Line

“How do you figure?” I asked, because right now, my focus was shot. I was supposed to be talking to him about our rules, about our relationship, and my thoughts felt like dandelion seeds scattered in the wind.

“Well…” He skimmed up my thigh, goose bumps following his path. “These past few months, I helped you get out of your head and into your body, didn’t I?” He caressed my hip, my stomach, teasing the undersides of my breasts.

I swallowed hard, too distracted to respond. At least until he pinched my nipple, demanding my attention. Answer me.

“Yes,” I hissed both in answer to his question and also because Yes. More. That.

“And your team won the Walter Cup.” His touch was gentler now, more exploratory as he circled my breasts, drawing spirals on my skin, moving closer and closer to my nipples without actually touching them.

“Mm-hmm.” I spread my legs, wanting him to touch me there. Everywhere.

His cock pressed against my ass, hard and insistent. I admired his control, even while I cursed it.

“You should eat some breakfast.” He held a piece of bacon to my mouth. I parted my lips and took a bite, savoring the saltiness on my tongue.

He watched me closely, patiently feeding me while I sat on his lap. I’d never felt more…cherished.

“Still hungry?” he asked after I’d finished the second piece.

I nodded, though I wasn’t hungry for food. I wanted him.

He used a fork to grab some of the omelet before lifting it to my mouth. He watched my mouth as I closed my lips around it, savoring the flavors and freshness.

“You should try some.” I grabbed the other fork, feeding him like he had me.

He smiled when he was done, and I felt as if the sunshine were pouring into me. Warm. Comforting. Happy. He kissed me then, tender and sweet.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a message to the group chat.

Frasier: Everyone, please welcome Morgan Rose Holmes.

There was a picture of Morgan in the hospital bassinet in the tiniest Hawks jersey I’d ever seen, a giant white bow perched on her little head. She didn’t have much hair, but her blue eyes were open and curious.

Frasier: Mom and baby are doing well. Morgan can’t wait to have her newborn portraits taken while sleeping in the Stanley Cup. Bryn might not be quite as enthusiastic about the idea.

I laughed, showing Carson my phone.

“Wow. He’s been a dad for less than twenty-four hours, and he already feels like a completely different person,” Carson joked.

“He’s happy.” I smiled, loving this for my dear friend. “But yeah, weird that he blasted the group chat since he rarely interacts on there.”

Carson chuckled, his body vibrating against mine. “You know why he did it, right?”

“Because he’s a proud dad,” I said, as if the answer were obvious.

“That, but I bet he’s harassing everyone for staying up late partying.”

I laughed. “Oh my god. I bet you’re right.” Frasier would totally do something like that—needle everyone without outright saying it.

Carson nodded, polishing off the rest of his omelet. “He missed one hell of a party.”

“I’m guessing he has zero regrets on that front. Though I’m not sure that’s true for everyone else.” I cringed.

“I’ve seen some pretty insane things since going pro, but that ice sculpture might take the cake.”

“A lot of alcohol flowed through that dick last night,” I deadpanned.

We both burst out laughing. But then I sobered. If most postgame celebrations were anything like the one last night, they involved lots of nudity and random women. My stomach roiled, and I pushed away my plate, no longer interested in breakfast.