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“Only you,” I gasp, grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure.

He dips a finger inside, then two, moving just right, his thumb working my clit until I’m dizzy. He’s murmuring, half-talking to himself, half to me. “So perfect, Joely. Always so perfect for me. Can’t get enough. Never could.”

I arch for him, needing more, and he reads it on my face. He pulls a condom from his wallet, tears it open with shaking hands,and rolls it on. He lines himself up, still watching me like he’s seeing something sacred. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want to see you when you come.”

He pushes in, slow at first, stretching me, filling me, and it’s everything—too much, not enough, exactly right. We both groan, clinging to each other, moving together in a rhythm that’s part wild, part worship.

Brogan’s hand finds my face, thumb brushing my cheek as he rocks into me, deeper, harder, losing himself, losing us both. “JoJo… fuck, you feel so good. I—God, I can’t—”

He drops his forehead to mine, his other hand slipping down between us, finding my clit, circling, coaxing, demanding. “Come for me, babe. Need to feel it. Need to know I’m the one who does this to you.”

I break, shattering apart under his hands, his mouth, his words. He keeps pumping in and out, chasing his own release, thrusts turning desperate, frantic, then slowing as he finds it, gasping my name like a prayer.

Once he’s come, he pulls me into his arms, breathing hard, hands tangled in my hair. And this time, I don’t hide. I just hold on tighter, letting the fire burn down around us.

Later, when we’re tangled together in the glow of dying firelight and my body feels deliciously wrecked, he runs a hand down my back, slow and easy.

“I want to do this right,” he says. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” I whisper, curling into his side. “Let’s just wait until you sign your new contract.”

His brow lifts. “You hiding me now?”

“No,” I grin. “Just… trying to enjoy the first try-mester before we announce the pregnancy.”

He chokes on a laugh. “Did you just—?”

“Try-mester,” I say smugly.

“You’re the worst.”

“Still slept with me.”

“Multiple times.”

“Your point?”

He groans, flopping back onto the pillow. “I am so screwed.”

“Yup.” I grin into his chest. “And if you play your cards right… again in the morning.”

And with that, Brogan Foster falls asleep with the world’s stupidest grin on his face and my heart right in his hands.

This boy has no idea how loved he really is.

But he’s about to find out.

I fall asleep tangled up with him, listening to the crackle of the fire and the steady thump of his heart, finally believing I might actually get everything I want.

Chapter Twenty-One

Brogan

Friday nights at Miner’s Arena don’t follow the rules. On evenings like this, the old rink feels more like a second home than a sports facility, with every corner echoing laughter, shrieking kids, and the scrape of skates over battered ice. Out in the parking lot, parents wrangle boots and lost gloves. Inside, the smell of hot dogs, popcorn, and sweat means the Slammers are running a community skate—half the town crowding in, bundled and bright-eyed, ready to watch their boys let loose. Around here, we don’t need trophies to make a night legendary. Just kids with hockey dreams and grown men who remember exactly how it feels to chase them.

Playlist: Follow Your Arrow by Kacey Musgraves

The locker room smells like muscle rub, sweat, and wet gear—which is to say, just like always. I’m sitting on the bench, halfwaythrough taping my stick, while Shep does laps in his socks and Gage throws grapes at a trash can and misses every damn time.