Page 2 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER TWO

Brooke

I tell him I need to use the restroom before we leave. Cam nods. I catch the drag of his stare following the sway of my hips as I walk away. The moment I turn the corner, I finally exhale, the air rushing out in a long breath.

Inside the bathroom, I pull my phone out with shaking fingers. I tap Ivy’s name. Straight to voicemail. I stare at the mirror like it might offer some divine intervention, then splash cold water over my wrists and face, trying to clear the fog clinging to my skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper, palms pressed to the counter. “You have a kid. A life. You didn’t even go to the high school reunion just to avoid this exact scenario.”

And yet, here I am.

I haven’t kept tabs on him. Haven’t searched him on social media in years. I heard about the injury and that he stopped playing. I know his younger brother is with the Miami Icemen now. But Cam? I couldn't bear to look for him.

I pace, trying to burn off the static crawling through my blood. I don’t trust myself in an enclosed space with him. I don’t trust what I’ll do with the smell of that cologne, the sound of his voice curling around old nicknames like they still belong to me.

I wipe my hands on a paper towel, and when I push open the door, he’s there again. Leaning against the wall, arms folded like a man who’s used to getting exactly what he wants just by standing still.

“You were gone ten minutes, sugar. I thought maybe you’d climbed out the window.”

“What are we doing, Cam?” I ask, barely looking up.

He tilts his head, gaze heavy on mine. “Talking.”

He steps forward, close enough to cage me in. His palm presses lightly against the small of my back, and before I can process the motion, he’s guiding me backward, past the threshold again. The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, followed by the soft metallic slide of the lock.

“Finally,” he says, voice low and rough, “some peace and quiet.”

I lean against the counter, tension winding around my spine. “I shouldn’t be here.”

He shakes his head slowly, coming closer, the air between us collapsing. “That makes two of us.”

The silence charges. His eyes drop to my lips, and something in my gut clenches tight.

He steps into my space like he owns it, one hand sliding into my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to anchor me. The kiss hits fast and deep, his mouth opening mine with a precision that sends heat cascading down my thighs.

His body presses mine against the counter, the sharp edge biting into the backs of my legs as he devours me like he’s starving.

“Fuck,” he mutters into my mouth. “You taste the same.”

I drag his shirt up, desperate for skin, and he works the buttons open like muscle memory, like he’s done it a hundred times for me.

Well, he has—a lifetime ago. But the muscle is harder now.

Broader. A man’s body. Mine arches to meet him, hands gliding from his stomach to the soft trail of hair leading down.

His hands are already under my dress, tugging my thong down my thighs.

The delicate strip of lace snaps in his grip like it’s nothing.

“That little thing was in my way,” he says, dropping the ruined fabric to the floor.

My breath catches, shame and lust colliding in my chest as he sinks to his knees, mouth hot against the inside of my thigh. “Still so fucking sweet.”

His tongue licks a stripe over me, and I bite my hand to keep from crying out. My legs threaten to give. He wraps an arm around one thigh, the other hand sliding between my folds, fingers sinking in like he already knows the rhythm I need.

My head falls back. His tongue works in tandem with his fingers, fast and relentless. My body bows, waves breaking through me, and before I can stop myself, I say, “King.” It rips out of me like a confession.

He rises, mouth wet, eyes wild. “Say it again.”

I shake my head, dizzy, wrecked, legs still shaking from the aftershocks. “This is a mistake.”

“Then let’s make it count.”

He unbuckles his belt, eyes locked on mine. I glance toward the door. Locked. No time. No space. Just him. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m the one on my knees. I take him in, tongue swirling around the tip before sliding him down my throat.

“Fuck, Brooke,” he hisses, one hand buried in my hair. “I’ve thought about this. Every fucking time I couldn’t sleep.”

I moan around him, taking him deeper. His hips jerk.

He pulls back before he loses it, yanks me up, and turns me toward the mirror, pressing me against the cool countertop.

His hand wraps around the back of my neck.

I watch his reflection, his eyes darkening as he tears open his wallet and pulls out a condom.

He rolls it on and positions himself behind me, his tip nudging against my entrance. My breath catches again as he pushes in, thick and deep.

“You take me so well,” he says, voice right at my ear.

The stretch burns in the best way. He starts to move, hips snapping into me with a rhythm that steals my thoughts. His hand slides under my dress to pinch my nipple, the other gripping my hip so hard it’ll bruise.

I watch myself in the mirror—eyes glazed, mouth open, wrecked—and hate how much I missed this. Him. The way he knows exactly how to pull every gasp, every cry, every filthy sound out of me like he’s tuning an instrument he never forgot how to play.

He drives into me faster, rougher, and when I start to fall apart again, crying out, "King, King," he groans, thrusts harder, chasing the end.

I come again, loud and messy, thighs shaking. He finishes with a low growl, biting down on my shoulder just enough to mark me before pulling out, breath ragged.

The bathroom is too quiet. The air too thick. I step away from him, legs wobbling, mind short-circuiting. His hand catches my wrist.

“Give me your number, Brooke.”

I don’t answer. I yank my dress down and scoop up my purse. My fingers fumble the lock. I bolt, heels clicking against tile, legs on autopilot as I burst through the restaurant and onto the street. I don’t look back.

Just then, a taxi rounds the corner, headlights slicing through the dark. I step off the curb and raise my hand. It slows, brakes hissing as it pulls up. The driver barely glances at me when I give him the address.

I slump into the back seat and stare out the window, ignoring the ache between my legs, the sting on my shoulder, the taste of him still clinging to my tongue. My thighs are damp. My pulse won’t settle. The scent of his skin is still on me, burned into every breath.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I close my eyes, but all I see is him.

The apartment is quiet when I slip inside.

Dim lighting spills in from the kitchen, just enough to see the babysitter curled up on the couch, half-covered by the throw blanket I keep folded over the armrest. Her mouth is slack, her phone dangling loosely in her hand. I toe off my heels and pad toward her.

She stirs when I gently touch her shoulder. “Oh,” she mumbles, blinking blearily. “He went down without a fight. Out like a light.”

I thank her, hand her the cash I’d set aside earlier, and see her out with a quiet goodnight.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale, leaning against it for a second like I need something solid to hold me upright.

My purse drops to the console table with a soft thud.

The silence in here is heavier than usual.

I make my way to the bathroom, stripping out of my dress like it’s coated in regret.

The water heats quickly. Steam fogs up the mirror as I step in and tilt my face up into the spray.

I scrub my skin raw, trying to erase the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice dragging out that old nickname like no time had passed.

“Fucking idiot,” I whisper, forehead pressed to the cool tile.

By the time I towel off and pull on an oversized tee, the buzz of him has dulled into something heavier. Stickier. I creep into Jackson’s room, careful not to wake him. His nightlight glows softly, throwing a warm pool of light over the bed.

He’s curled up in a tight little ball, one arm slung over Buddy, our old bulldog.

Buddy snorts once in his sleep, legs twitching like he’s chasing something in a dream.

I crouch beside them, brushing a curl from Jackson’s forehead.

His lips are parted, breath even. Such a beautiful boy.

Strong jaw. Long lashes. His father’s dimple, but all mine in every way that counts.

This. Him. Us. This is what matters.

Not whatever the hell that was tonight. Not Cam and his rough hands and dirty mouth. Not the way he said my name like it still belonged to him.

I lean in and press a kiss to Jackson’s cheek, staying there for a second longer than I should. I whisper I love you, barely breathing the words, then push myself up and head for the kitchen.

I pour a glass of water and lean on the counter, drinking it slowly, trying not to let the memory unravel me.

I’ve worked too hard for this peace. For the company.

The stability. The way my son sleeps without fear.

I’m the one who makes all of it run. I’m the center.

The constant. There's no time for distractions. Or mistakes.

And that’s all tonight was. A mistake.

Sex with Cam is not a beginning. It isn’t hope. It’s not some long-lost spark reigniting. It’s a fluke. A collision between memory and weakness. Nothing more.

We had sex. So what. People do stupid things when they’re bored or frustrated or, I don’t even know—horny in a damn restaurant bathroom.

That’s all it was.

I never have to see him again. He doesn’t live in my world. He’s part of some past I outgrew. That’s the truth I need to sit with.

This is good.

This is very, very good.