Page 43

MILLIE

We won.

4–1. Three goals and an assist for me. My best game of the season.

It was the kind of night that reminds me why I love this sport even when it exhausts me.

But none of it—not the roar of the crowd, not the hat trick, not even Lia's squeal when she saw my name on the jumbotron—touches the part of me that lights up when I step into the apartment and find Harper barefoot in my jersey, messy hair, curled on my couch like she's always belonged here.

She's got a mug of something warm between her hands, the sleeves too long on her so she's tucked her palms inside the fabric, the number 13 stretching across her chest. The sight physically slows me down.

Like my whole body hits pause just so I can look at her.

Her legs are curled beneath her, pale against the dark throw blanket she dragged off the armrest. There's a camera on the coffee table, still on, like she was too distracted to turn it off.

Her cheeks are pink—not from embarrassment, but from comfort.

Her body loose, lips curved in that small smile she only gives me when she's not aware she's doing it.

God, she's beautiful.

"Hey, superstar." Her voice cuts into the quiet, soft and warm, full of something deeper than teasing.

I drop my bag by the door and kick my shoes off one at a time, still watching her. "I could get used to this. You, waiting for me, looking absolutely beautiful with my number and last name on the back."

Her smile deepens, and she lifts the mug to her lips like she's hiding behind it. "Lia told me I looked very cool. She said this jersey makes me faster. And then she made me do laps in the hallway."

I laugh. "Bet you didn't even fight her on it."

"Of course not. She's terrifying."

I cross the room slowly, letting the tension stretch. Her eyes flicker to me, then away, then back again. She does that when she's trying not to stare. I catch her every time.

"You were incredible tonight," she says, setting the mug down and shifting to face me more fully. "Like... I knew you were good, but seeing you like that again—on the ice—it's different. You look like you're flying."

"You make me want to fly," I say before I can think better of it.

She goes still. And red. Gloriously, devastatingly red. Her gaze drops to her lap, and she laughs under her breath, shy and breathless in a way that makes my chest ache.

"You're shameless," she says.

"I've waited a long time to flirt with you without pretending it's for show."

I lean in, palms braced on either side of her thighs on the couch, close enough to feel her breath catch. Her lips part just slightly, and I swear I could live in that split-second—her skin warm, her eyes wide, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for me and doesn't know how.

"Are you gonna kiss me, Bennett?" she murmurs.

"Do you want me to?"

She bites her lip. Nods.

I press forward slowly, kissing her like I've got time—because I do.

Because we do now. It's soft, slow, the kind of kiss that starts deep in your chest and works its way out through your fingertips.

Her hand slips into the collar of the jersey she's wearing, tugging me closer until I'm half on top of her, one knee sinking into the cushion beside her hip.

Her breath catches in that little space between us, and I swear I feel it against my lips—warm and shaky and real.

She blinks slowly, like she's waking up from something, like I kissed her into a different time zone and now she's reorienting herself.

And god, if she isn't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Her hair's messy from where she's been lying back on the couch, a few strands curling at her temples, soft and damp from her earlier shower.

The jersey she's wearing has slipped off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone and just a hint of the freckles I already memorized.

There's a pink flush on her cheeks and it's not from the tea or the warmth of the room.

I know I did that. I love that I did that.

"You're not playing fair," she murmurs, her voice low and a little breathless, the ghost of a smile pulling at her mouth. Her eyes flutter open just enough to meet mine. There's mischief there—familiar, playful, the kind that used to make me nervous, but now just makes me want to lean in again.

"I'm not playing at all," I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. My fingers linger there a second longer than they need to, and she leans into my touch like she's not even thinking about it. Like her whole body trusts mine, knows where it fits now.

"That so?" she asks, the corner of her mouth lifting, and then her fingers slide under the hem of the jersey. Not far—just enough to graze my thigh. It's soft. Barely there. But it lights up something in me anyway. Something warm and steady and just a little bit wild.

I nod, my voice gone suddenly rough. "Yeah. This isn't a game anymore."

She tilts her head. "Then what is it?"

I could tell her. I could say it—how this feels like falling and flying at the same time, like something I never let myself want because it felt too good, too big, too real.

I could tell her I love the way she looks in my jersey but love the way she looks at me even more.

I could tell her I'd trade every goal I've ever scored for the way her lips part right before I kiss her.

But instead, I lean in again, close enough that my lips brush hers when I whisper, "Everything."

And when she kisses me this time, it's different.

It's still soft, still slow, but there's heat beneath it—real and growing.

Her hands slip up under the jersey like she's memorizing me with her fingertips.

My heart stumbles, trips over itself in my chest as I slide my hand around her waist, drawing her closer until there's no space left to close.

She breaks the kiss with a shaky laugh, her forehead resting against mine. "You keep looking at me like that and I'm never giving your jersey back."

I grin, breathless, already half in love with the way she says your jersey like it means something more. "Good. Wasn't planning on taking it back anyway."

Her hands slide around my waist, anchoring me to her like I'm something worth holding onto. And in this moment—in this quiet apartment, with the city outside still buzzing from the win, and her heart beating steady against mine—I believe it. I believe in us.

She shifts beneath me, and the movement pulls the jersey higher on her thighs.

Her skin brushes mine and I can't help the way my breath stutters in response.

She notices—it's impossible not to, with how close we are—and her lips curl into the kind of smile that makes the back of my neck flush.

That familiar Harper smile, soft and slow and just a little unsure, like she doesn't know the effect she has on me.

Like she doesn't know she could ask for anything and I'd give it to her without thinking.

Her fingers trail up my back, slow and deliberate, under my shirt now. Skin to skin. She's not rushing it—just learning me. Mapping the line of my spine, the curve of my waist, like she has all the time in the world.

"You're staring," she murmurs, breath warm against my neck.

"I can't help it," I whisper back, pressing a kiss to the edge of her jaw.

Her hair is tucked behind her ears, it frames her face perfectly—soft and sharp at once, her grey eyes catching the golden light from the kitchen behind us.

God, she's stunning. This close, I can see every freckle, every faint line at the corners of her eyes from years of quiet smiles and laughter she never thought anyone noticed. I notice.

"You keep looking at me like I'm going to disappear," she says, quieter now. Vulnerable.

I shake my head. "No. I'm just trying to remember every part of this. Of you. In case I wake up and it's all a dream."

"It's not," she says. "I'm not going anywhere."

I believe her. But I still kiss her like I'm trying to anchor myself in it.

Her breath hitches again, and her nails drag gently down my back.

My whole body arches into the feeling—like she's pulling something out of me I didn't even know I was holding onto.

I press my hand flat against her stomach under the jersey, fingers splaying wide, just feeling her. Warm and alive and mine.

She lets out a soft sound—half laugh, half sigh—and tugs at the hem of my shirt. "Take this off."

"Bossy," I grin, but I don't hesitate. I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor, and her eyes drop down, slowly. She doesn't hide it. Doesn't rush. Just looks at me like I'm worth taking in.

"God, Millie," she says, almost under her breath. "You—how do you always look like this?"

"Like what?"

She bites her bottom lip, then drags her nails up the inside of my arm. "Like you already know I'm wrecked for you."

I breathe in through my nose, steadying myself with a hand against the back of the couch, caging her in a little. "That's 'cause I am," I say. "I know what I'm doing to you. I always have."

She swallows. Her hands slide up my ribs, her legs shifting so her thigh presses between mine, and my hips instinctively roll forward, chasing friction.

And then her fingers tangle in my hair, she uses the grip to pull me in—closer, deeper—and kisses me like we've both waited too long.

There's nothing pretend about this now.

Not the way our bodies move, slow and deliberate, like we already know each other.

Not the way she moans into my mouth when I press into her, deeper, closer, until I can't tell whose breath is whose.

Her lips trail down to my neck. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of this."

"Good," I rasp out, my voice nearly gone. "Because I plan on doing this for a long time."

I kiss her again, deeper this time, with the ache of every moment we spent pretending we didn't want this. Every time we had to look away. Every lie that tried to hide how real it's always been.

Harper gasps into my mouth when my hand slides up her side, callused fingers tracing her ribs, memorizing the shape of her.

Her head tips back slightly, those soft strands of hair brushing my cheek, and I kiss the exposed line of her jaw, her throat, the hollow beneath her ear.

Her skin's warm and flushed and smells faintly like my shampoo.

It wrecks me in ways I don't know how to explain.

She doesn't stop me. She leans into every touch like it's air.

"Millie," she whispers, barely audible.

God, the way she says my name. I don't think I'll ever stop being undone by it.

I pull back just enough to look at her, needing to see her face. Her eyes are glassy, wide, and completely unguarded, her lips pink and parted. And there's that look again—the one that makes me feel like I'm the only thing that matters. Like I'm home. Like she's all in.

"You okay?" I ask, brushing my thumb against her cheek.

She nods, her hand covering mine. "More than okay." And then, a breathless laugh. "I think I'm kind of obsessed with you."

I grin, heart thudding hard. "Only kind of?"

Harper rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now. The kind that reaches her eyes and makes her shoulders drop like she's finally letting herself relax. Like she's safe.

"Shut up," she murmurs, tugging me down again. "I'm wearing your jersey. I think we're past the kind of part."

And just like that, we're kissing again. Her hand finds the back of my neck, pulling me impossibly closer, like even an inch of space between us would be too much. And honestly, it is. I need her like air.

"You have too many clothes on," Harper murmurs, breathless, tugging at the waistband of my jeans.

I grin against her mouth. "So do you."

My fingers find the clasp of her bra, and I undo it easily, my nails grazing her skin as I slide the straps slowly down her arms. Her breath hitches, and she shivers—not from cold, but from how closely we're watching each other.

Her skin is soft and flushed and impossibly warm beneath my hands, and the way she reacts to even the smallest touch makes my pulse stutter.

She drives me absolutely insane.

In less than a minute, we're bare. Every part of us touching.

I settle on top of her, and she wraps her arms around my waist like she never wants to let go.

We stay like that for a while, just kissing, tasting, feeling.

Letting our hands explore slowly, reverently—like we're memorizing something important.

She's warm everywhere, all soft curves and quiet gasps. Her hands drift across my back, my hips, up my ribs like she's trying to map every part of me. And maybe she is.

She's warm everywhere. All soft skin, flushed cheeks, and the kind of breathless gasps that feel like secrets only I get to hear.

Her hands drift along my back in slow, curious paths—over my hips, up along my ribs, fingertips grazing like she's trying to memorize every dip and curve, every reaction she pulls from me.

Maybe she is. Maybe I am, too. Every touch feels new and familiar all at once.

It's discovery and recognition at the same time.

I lower her carefully onto the couch, taking in the way her eyes flutter shut beneath me, the way her chest rises and falls with anticipation.

And then I dip my head down, mouth closing around her nipple without warning, my fingers teasing the other one until her body arches into me.

Her lips part in a perfect, breathless 'O,' and for a second I forget how to breathe.

She's so fucking beautiful it hurts. The kind of beautiful that makes time stop.

Her fingers slide down between us, she moves lower, across my stomach, down to where I'm already aching for her.

My legs part on instinct, needing her, inviting her.

And then her fingers are there, trailing over me, and I drop my forehead to her chest with a choked-out sound that doesn't even sound like me.

"Jesus," she breathes, her voice shaky. "You're so wet. This is all for me?"

I nod, because talking feels impossible. "Just you, baby."

Harper lifts her fingers slowly, deliberately, and locks her gaze on mine as she brings them to her mouth.

She doesn't break eye contact as she sucks one finger, then the other, tongue curling around them like she's savoring the taste.

My whole body clenches at the sight, and I swear I could come right then and there, just from watching her.

Just from the pure, unfiltered desire in her eyes.

"You taste so good," she whispers, her voice husky and low, gray eyes wide and dark. "I need more. Can I?" She asks it softly, almost shy—like she hasn't already ruined me with a look.

She shifts us gently, guiding me back onto the couch until she's straddling me, one knee on either side of my hips.

And the sight—fuck. Harper, naked, flushed and glowing in the warm light, her short hair tousled, sticking out in soft waves around her face.

Her chest rising fast, her lips parted, eyes locked on mine like I'm the most sacred thing she's ever seen.

I'm done for. I'm so fucking in love with this woman.

"Can I?" she says again, hands roaming up my stomach, over my ribs. Her palms are warm, grounding. Her gaze never wavers.

I nod, my voice barely a whisper. "Yeah. That'd be... yeah."

I don't even finish the sentence, because she doesn't let me. She slides down between my thighs, kissing along my skin, slow and reverent. Her hands cup the backs of my thighs, lifting them gently and settling them over her shoulders. She looks up one last time.

"Okay?"

"Fuck, yes," I breathe, no hesitation. I don't care how needy I sound. I am needy. For her. Only her.

And then she leans in.

The second her tongue touches me, my back arches off the couch.

My hands fly to the nearest thing I can grab—her hair, the cushions, her shoulder.

I don't know. I don't care. She's licking me like she already knows every inch, like she's starved for this.

For me.

She's slow at first—kissing, tasting, circling my clit with her tongue in a rhythm that's somehow both gentle and relentless.

Then faster. More pressure. She moans into me, and the vibration sends a jolt through my whole body.

"Harper—fuck," I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice.

She adds a finger, slipping it inside me with ease, and I whimper. It's too much and not enough. Then another, stretching me just right, curling them in a way that hits something deep inside me that makes my vision blur.

My hands are buried in her hair now, holding on like she's the only solid thing left in the world. She keeps going, tongue and fingers working together in perfect, maddening harmony. Her mouth never leaves me, never eases up, and I can feel it—the tension building sharp and fast. My body's on fire.

"Harp," I pant. "Oh my god. Baby—please."

She looks up, her lips shining, her eyes burning into mine. "Do you need to come, baby?" she teases softly. "I can feel how close you are."

"Yes. Please."

The word comes out broken, and I don't even care.

I don't beg—but for her? I'd do it on my knees.

Her tongue is everywhere—flicking, swirling, slipping inside me, then gone and replaced with fingers that pump and curl in just the right way while her mouth covers my clit again. I'm shaking. Whimpering. My thighs tighten around her shoulders and I start begging again without even realizing.

Please.

Harper.

Please.

My voice doesn't sound like mine anymore. It's high, frantic, shaking apart at the seams.

And she listens. She fucks me like she's memorizing every reaction, every sound I make, every tremble. Her fingers find that spot again, and she presses, hard and deep. My hand slams against the couch, the other grabbing the back of her head as I fall apart. Hard. Fast. Loud.

"Fuck. Harper!—" I scream her name like it's the only thing that matters.

Pleasure crashes over me in waves so strong they leave me gasping.

She doesn't stop—licks and kisses through it all, cleaning me up, whispering praise I can barely hear through the rush in my ears.

I don't know how long it takes before I finally come back to myself, still trembling, dazed, completely wrecked.

Harper crawls up over me slowly, kissing a line from my thigh to my stomach, up my chest, over my collarbone.

Her mouth finds my neck and then my cheek.

She's breathing hard now too, her hair a mess, skin flushed, her body warm as she finally lays her cheek on my chest. She listens to my heartbeat—still thundering—and doesn't say anything for a long moment.

Neither do I. I just wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, like I never want to let her go.

Her fingers trace lazy, invisible lines across my stomach, soft and idle, like she's still buzzing with energy but doesn't know what to do with it now.

We're quiet, but it's not empty silence.

It's warm. Heavy in the best way. Like the moment knows it's sacred and refuses to rush.

Then she speaks, and her voice is barely more than a whisper. Hesitant. Shy in a way that catches me completely off guard.

"Was that okay?"

I blink, then tilt my head to look at her. "What?"

Her chin lifts just slightly, resting on my chest so she can meet my eyes, and the look in hers guts me. There's a flicker of insecurity there, doubt hiding behind the softness of her features. She's blushing, too—cheeks warm and pink and vulnerable.

"That," she murmurs again. "Was that... okay? I've been told I was good at oral before, and I—"

"Wait. What?"

She lets out a soft laugh, biting her lip like she's trying to play it off, but I can still see the way her eyes search mine for reassurance. "Did I break your brain?"

I cup her cheeks without even thinking, hands framing her face like I'm trying to hold the whole world steady. "Yeah," I tell her honestly, "because that was fucking amazing, Harps."

Her laugh is quieter this time, breathy and sweet, but it sounds like relief.

Like maybe she didn't know just how much power she had over me until I said it out loud.

I thumb her cheek, brushing the flushed skin with the back of my hand, and I watch her melt into the touch like it's the only answer she ever needed.

"You're beautiful," I say softly. "And the way you made me feel—Christ, Harper.

Seriously, how fucking small was Isaiah's dick that he let you believe you were anything but amazing?

Because you are, baby. You're incredible.

Beautiful. Smart. And I'm..." I close my eyes, breath catching, "I just wish you could see yourself the way that I do, because Harper there's nothing more important in the world than you. "

Her eyes go glassy for a second like she doesn't know where to put all the emotion welling up behind them.

Then she leans down and presses a slow, lingering kiss to my lips—just a whisper of a kiss, but it carries everything we didn't have to say out loud.

Everything that already lives between us, heavy and soft and glowing.

When she settles back down, her body slides naturally into mine, like puzzle pieces snapping into place.

Her leg drapes over my hips, arm tucked under my neck.

Our bare skin pressed together, warm under the soft blanket she pulls lazily over us.

She smells like me now—like sex and skin and sweat and something sweeter, something that's just us.

She breathes me in. I run my fingers through her hair—short, soft strands that barely graze her shoulders, still a little damp with sweat. She hums, leaning into it, eyes fluttering shut again like she's safe here. Like this is where she belongs.

"This feels fake," she murmurs after a while, voice barely audible against my skin.

I blink, startled. "What?"

She lifts her head again, propping herself up on her elbow so she can look at me. "Not in a bad way. Just... unreal. Like, how did we get here? From pretending in red carpets... to this?" She gestures between us—naked, tangled up, hearts too full to hold.

And I get it. I do.

Because sometimes I look at her and I feel the same dizzy kind of wonder. Like I skipped a step somewhere and landed here by accident—only, nothing about it feels wrong.

"I think," I say slowly, reaching out to trace the shape of her mouth with my thumb, "we stopped pretending a long time ago. We just didn't say it out loud."

She nods, her lips parting slightly beneath my touch. "Yeah."

There's so much more I want to tell her—things I've felt for weeks now.

Every quiet way I've fallen in love with her: watching her take pictures on the sky.

The way she leaves post-it notes in my bag when she leaves before me.

The way she watches me like she already knows what I'm thinking.

The way she's let me see all of her—every soft, unsure, brave, stubborn, breathtaking part.

But I don't rush it.

I just lean up and kiss her again, slow and deep, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other slips under the blanket to rest on the warm curve of her waist. She kisses me like she's not in a hurry either.

We stay like that for a while. In the quiet.

In the afterglow. In the kind of peace that only comes when you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Her breathing evens out eventually, and I realize she's falling asleep on top of me, her body a comforting weight, her fingers still curled into the blanket at my side.

I press a kiss into her hair and close my eyes, not needing anything else right now.

This is home.

She's home.