Page 11 of Erotic Temptations 2

“Are you kidding? I’d murder for it.”

The rink snack bar pulsed with the kind of energy only fluorescent lighting and ancient curling trophies could provide. Holiday music blared overhead, and a bored teenager with a nose ring manned the cash register, eyeing us with that signature “You’re old, why are you here?” look.

Ryan ordered two hot chocolates with extra marshmallows and no hesitation. He even paid, because apparently chivalry was alive and living in this gym teacher’s broad shoulders.

He handed me the paper cup, our fingers brushing. “Careful. It’s hot.”

My tongue was already half-burned, but the sugar and milk were worth it. “They make it this way so you can’t taste the disappointment.”

Ryan took a sip, marshmallow foam clinging to his lip. “You disappointed?”

Hard to answer that one, with him looking at me like I was the only thing worth focusing on in the whole damn snack bar. “Honestly? Could be worse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I risked a bigger gulp and regretted it instantly. “You could have let me fall in the rink. Broken ego, broken tailbone. The works.”

Ryan grinned, leaned in, and thumbed the marshmallow from his mouth. “Wouldn’t happen. I take care of what’s important.”

Sexiest sentence I’d ever heard, and it wasn’t even dirty. My heart did a stupid little dance.

I nudged his cup. “You’re getting foam everywhere.”

He licked it off, a quick flick of tongue. “You staring?”

“Should I not be?”

He looked me up and down, lingering. “I’d be hurt if you weren’t.”

The concrete floor vibrated with the thump of skates with people coming and going. Our bench was grimy, but the world felt weirdly private for a minute, just the two of us locked together by bitter chocolate and mutual longing.

Ryan leaned in so his face hovered close, all warmth and confidence. “You ready for round two?”

Of what, my brittle dignity or the rink? Didn’t matter. “Try and keep up.”

He snagged my hand again, pulling us back toward the ice.

Round two was easier. Maybe from muscle memory, maybe from the simple fact that Ryan didn’t let go for a second. The other skaters faded out. My body moved a little easier, warmed up, and his presence pressed into every cell of me.

He tugged me into a faster lap. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

“Lies. This is entirely you.”

He spun us around the center, then braced our bodies together to slow down. All the while, those hands never left my waist. When we passed under the string of colored lights, he dipped his lips to my ear. “You smell really fucking good.”

My brain skipped a beat. Was he allowed to say that? Apparently yes, because he didn’t stop.

“You’re just jacked up on sugar.”

He snorted. “No. Pretty sure it’s you.”

We skated until the muscles in my thighs shook and my brain struggled to keep up. Every time I faltered, Ryan caught and steadied me, eyes bright, mouth tilted in a smirk.

At the end, he braked so we slid up against the barrier, our bodies bumper-to-bumper.

“No injuries. I’m proud.”

I fought to regulate my breathing, which was a lot harder than you’d think. “Guess I owe you.”