Page 74 of The Grumpy Defenseman

One steady point of contact.

My fingers tightened in his hair. His hands stayed on the backs of my legs, not moving, which was somehow worse than if they had. The man had weaponized stillness. Again.

I made the mistake of looking down.

His mouth was still against my skin. His eyes were closed now, his face turned into me like this was the only soft place he had found all night. The bruise cut across his side, ugly and real, but his hands were warm and careful, and the whole impossible, infuriating man of him was sitting in my kitchen with pain in his body and trust in his grip.

I slid my fingers deeper into his hair and held on.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “One kiss.”

He looked up at me like he knew we were both lying and liked me enough not to say it first.

When I kissed him, it was slow because it had to be.

Careful because of the ribs.

Hot because tenderness had teeth when it wanted to.

He did not chase.

That was what nearly undid me.

He sat there and let me choose the depth of it, the angle, the pace. Every inch of restraint in him felt more intimate than urgency would have. His hands stayed at my thighs, but his thumbs moved once, then again, barely there, as if he was reminding himself he was allowed to touch.

I shifted closer, and he inhaled through his nose.

Sharp.

Controlled.

Not controlled enough.

Good.

His mouth opened under mine, and the kiss deepened by degrees. No rush. No desk. No losing ourselves because the room had tipped and gravity had stopped caring. This was deliberate. It was Evan letting me set the line and then holding it with both hands even though I could feel exactly how much it cost him.

That was the problem with restraint.

I let my hand slide from his hair to the back of his neck. His skin was warm under my palm. His pulse worked hard beneath my thumb.

“Sam,” he said against my mouth.

Warning.

Want.

Both.

“I know,” I whispered.

I kissed him once more anyway.

His hands tightened at the backs of my thighs, and for one second the kitchen went narrow around us. The counter at my back. His body in front of me. The bruise under the towel waiting to be iced again. The takeout going cold beside us because apparently noodles were no match for bad decisions and a shirtless defenseman with trust issues.

Then I pulled back.

Because one of us had to be reasonable.