Page 20

Her lips meet mine, and for a second, I freeze. The rational part of my brain stutters, trying to process what's happening, but my body already knows how to respond. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer as I return the kiss, all the tension of the past days dissolving in an instant of contact.

The late afternoon sun filters through her half-drawn blinds, painting stripes of golden light across her face as she pulls back slightly, her eyes questioning, uncertain. I answer by kissing her again, deeper this time, tasting the faint mint of her toothpaste and something else that's uniquely Hannah.

Her dorm room is silent except for our quickened breathing and the distant sounds of campus life filtering through the window—laughter, car doors, music from someone's speakers. But all of it fades to background noise as Hannah's fingers thread through my hair, tugging gently in a way that sends heat racing down my spine.

"You sure about this?" I murmur against her lips, giving her one last chance to reconsider.

Her answer is to kiss me harder, her body pressing against mine with newfound urgency. I respond instantly, my hands sliding down to the backs of her thighs before lifting her in one fluid motion. She wraps her legs around my waist, her weight settling perfectly against me as I turn, taking two steps toward her bed.

I lower her carefully onto the comforter, mindful of my own weight, but she pulls me down with surprising strength. Books and papers scatter to the floor. Her twin bed is narrow, barely enough space for the two of us, but somehow that makes it better—no room for distance, for second thoughts.

The scent of her surrounds me—clean laundry, floral shampoo, and beneath it all, the intoxicating smell of her skin. I trail kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, savoring the small gasp she makes.

Her hands are everywhere—sliding across my back, trailing down my sides, tugging at the hem of my shirt with impatient fingers. I pull back just enough to help her, yanking the fabric over my head and tossing it somewhere behind me. The air feels cool against my heated skin for just a moment before Hannah's hands are on me again, her touch leaving trails of fire on my skin.

"You're so…" she whispers, her fingers tracing the contours of my chest, exploring each dip and plane like she's committing them to memory.

I should say something, tell her how she's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, but words escape me. Instead, I show her with actions—cupping her face gently with one hand while the other slides beneath her sweater, encountering the soft warmth of her stomach, the delicate curve of her waist.

She arches into my touch, a silent invitation that I accept without hesitation, my hand traveling higher to trace the outline of her bra through the thin fabric. Her breath catches, and I pause, watching her face carefully for any sign of uncertainty.

"Don't stop," she breathes, and I obey, lowering my mouth to hers once more as my fingers continue their exploration.

I tug at the hem of her shirt, and she lifts her arms, allowing me to pull it over her head. The sight of her beneath me, hair fanned out on the pillow, skin flushed with desire, wearing nothing but shorts and a simple black bra, is enough to make my heart stutter.

"Hannah," I whisper, her name like a prayer on my lips.

She reaches for me, pulling me back down to her, our bare skin pressing together at last. The contact is electric, sending a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with connection. This isn't just desire—it's something deeper, more profound than I've experienced before.

We move together, learning each other's rhythms. My hand slides up her spine to the clasp of her bra, a silent question that she answers by arching further into me. With practiced ease, I unhook the garment, then pause, savoring the anticipation of the moment.

Slowly, I pull the straps down her arms, revealing her inch by inch until she's bare beneath me, vulnerable and perfect. Time seems to slow as I take in the sight of her, committing every detail to memory—the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, the gentle curve of her breasts, the way her eyes darken as I look at her.

"You're staring," she murmurs, a hint of shyness in her voice despite her boldness up to this point.

"Can't help it," I admit, lowering my head to place a kiss at the center of her chest, right over her heart. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

A flush spreads across her skin at my words, and I follow its path with my lips, trailing kisses down her torso, across the soft swell of her breast, worshipping every inch of her. When my mouth closes around her nipple, she gasps, her back arching off the bed, hands flying to my hair to hold me in place.

I lose myself in the taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way her body responds to my touch. My hand slides down her stomach to the button of her jeans, pausing there in silent question. Her hips lift in answer, and I make quick work of the fastening, easing the denim down her legs until she's left in nothing but simple cotton underwear.

"Not fair," she breathes, her hands moving to my jeans. "You're still dressed."

I grin against her skin. "Easy to fix."

Her fingers fumble with my button, my zipper, and I help her, kicking off my jeans until we're matched in our state of undress. When I lower myself back over her, the feeling of her body against mine, with only the thinnest layers separating us, is almost too much to bear.

We move together, finding a rhythm that builds the heat between us to an almost unbearable level. My hand traces the edge of her underwear, fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband, teasing, exploring. Her breathing becomes more erratic, her movements more urgent, and I respond in kind, my self-control hanging by a thread.

"Sand—" she starts, but whatever she was about to say is lost as my fingers find their target, and her words dissolve into a moan that I capture with my lips.

I watch her face as I touch her, mesmerized by the play of emotions—pleasure, surprise, need—that cross her features. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging into my skin in a way that will leave marks tomorrow. I welcome the sensation, the physical reminder of this moment.

"Please," she whispers, and though she doesn't specify what she's asking for, I understand completely.

I'm about to answer her plea when a sharp knock at the door shatters the moment like glass.

"Hannah? I brought dinner as promised!"

We freeze, staring at each other. Hannah's eyes widen, panic replacing desire in an instant.

"Hold on!" she calls, her voice admirably steady despite the circumstances.

"Shit," I mutter, already rolling off her, searching for my discarded clothing.

She scrambles for her own clothes.

I've never dressed so quickly in my life, pulling on jeans and fumbling for my shirt as Hannah does the same. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame what my hands have thoroughly mussed, then pinches her cheeks as if to dispel the flush of arousal.

"How do I look?" she whispers.

Like sin itself, I want to say. Like everything I've ever wanted and more. Like the reason poets write sonnets and musicians compose love songs.

"Good," is what I say instead, because now is not the time for poetry. "A little…flushed."

She grimaces, grabbing a textbook and opening it to a random page. "Sit at the desk. Try to look like you're helping me study."

I comply, taking the chair and pulling it close to her bed, where she now sits cross-legged, the picture of academic focus if not for her still-swollen lips and the lingering desire in her eyes.

"Coming!" she calls, then gives me one last warning look before opening the door.

Lennox stands in the hallway, a bag of takeout in one hand, her eyes widening almost comically as she takes in my presence.

"Oh," she says, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I didn't realize you had company."

"Sanderson is helping me with…statistics," Hannah says, the lie so transparent I have to cough to cover my laugh.

"Statistics," Lennox repeats, her tone making it clear she doesn't believe a word. "I didn't know hockey players were…so good at math."

"Yeah, we’re full of surprises," I offer, the picture of innocence despite my racing heart and the boner in my pants.

"I bet you are," Lennox says, stepping into the room and setting the takeout on Hannah's desk. "Well, I brought enough for two, but not three. I can come back—"

"No," Hannah says quickly. "Stay. Sanderson was just leaving."

I raise an eyebrow at her, but she gives me a subtle headshake. Right. Discretion. Taking things slow. All the things we were definitely not doing five seconds ago.

"Yeah, I should get going," I agree, gathering my phone and keys. "Team meeting soon."

"What a shame," Lennox says, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Hannah, walk him to the door while I set up the food?"

Hannah shoots her a look but follows me into the hallway anyway, closing the door behind us to give us a moment of privacy.

"Well," I say, my voice low, "that was…"

"Too much," she finishes, but she's smiling. "I don't know what came over me. I’m sorry."

"I'm not complaining." I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. "Though I'd prefer no interruptions next time."

"Next time?" she repeats, her expression turning serious. "Are we really doing this, Sanderson?"

I lift our joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I want to. The question is, do you?"

She considers for a moment, then nods slowly. "I think I do. But we need to be careful."

I would do anything to kiss her again. I lean in and whisper, "What's happening between us is just for us. No one else."

Relief softens her features, a soft blush on her cheeks. "Good…and we're still taking it slow."

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "That was slow?"

She blushes, glancing down. "Slower than it would have been if Lennox hadn't shown up."

"True." I tilt her chin up, holding her gaze. "We go at your pace, Hannah. Okay?"

She smiles, that real, unguarded smile that I've come to crave. "I'd like that."

"Me too." I lean in for one more kiss, this one gentle, a promise rather than a demand. "I'll text you later?"

"You better."

With that, I force myself to walk away, though everything in me wants to stay. The door closes softly behind her, and I pause in the hallway, collecting myself before heading back into the world.

And right now, I have the hardest boner I’ve had in weeks that needs to be relieved.