Page 11

Max

I’m curious about her reaction as I open the door to my apartment.

Most people expect NHL players to live in penthouses. They assume we’re all millionaires. They don’t realize how many of us aren’t—especially when you’ve been quietly funding pediatric leukemia research for years.

Clean lines, warm wood floors, a well-used sectional, a decent sound system tucked beneath a wall-mounted jersey. Stanley’s toy bin sits in the corner, half-buried in a pile of chewed rope. It’s not flashy. Not sleek. But it’s mine.

Her eyes sweep over the minimalist decor and land on the bookcase with my trophies. She doesn’t say anything, but I see it. Not awe. Not greed.

Respect.

She doesn’t look disappointed. And that hits harder than anything she could have asked.

She takes it all in like she sees me in it—not the money, not the image, but what it took to build this life. The sacrifices. The silence. The nights spent with a dog instead of a person.

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until she turns to me and says softly, “It suits you.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Strong. Simple. Honest.”

Jesus Christ.

I want to kiss her right here in the damn foyer, but I don’t. Not yet.

Instead, I take her hand and lead her through the space—right into my bedroom. My sanctuary. Where I don’t fuck around. Where I haven’t let anyone in for years.

She stands at the threshold, her body backlit by the city lights behind her. I take a mental picture.

“Come here.”

She does. Slowly. And it kills me—how soft she looks in this moment. Not the guarded vet. Not the fierce competitor. Just Morgan. Bare, open, and here for me.

I cup her jaw, run my thumb across her cheek. “You still sure?”

She nods again, eyes never leaving mine.

“Good.” I lean in, my voice low. “Because I’ve been waiting for my turn.”

Her breath catches.

My lips claim hers slowly this time—none of the frantic urgency from our first night. This isn’t about needing to feel something. This is feeling something. Her mouth opens under mine, and when she presses into me, I back her toward the bed without breaking the kiss.

She hits the mattress with a soft gasp.

“Take your clothes off,” I murmur. “I want to see you.”

She hesitates for a second—then she does. No teasing. No performance. She strips like she’s giving me a gift.

And fuck, she is .

I follow suit, dropping my shirt, my jeans, until we’re both bare in every way that matters. The air crackles between us as I crawl over her, lowering my weight until our skin touches. Her hands skim my back. My lips trace her throat.

“You always let someone else lead?” I whisper, teasing, remembering how she took charge that first night.

“No,” she admits. “But with you…”

She trails off, but her eyes say the rest.

With me , she doesn’t need to. With me , she can let go.

I pull back just enough to see her whole face. “I’ve got you.”

Then I move down her body, kissing the path between her breasts, over her ribs, down her stomach. She arches under me.

“Max…”

“I know, baby.” My hands slide beneath her thighs, spreading her wide. “But it’s my turn.”

And then I show her what that means.

I drag my tongue slowly along her inner thigh, savoring the way she trembles beneath me. I take my time, letting my breath tease her folds before I even make contact. She’s already wet for me—slick, soft, her scent filling my lungs and making my cock throb against the mattress.

I press an open-mouthed kiss to her clit. She jolts.

Then I lick her. Long, slow, indulgent. Not to tease—but to worship.

She moans, hips rolling instinctively, but I hold her down. One arm draped across her waist, the other gripping her thigh. Mine to steady. Mine to savor.

I circle her clit with the flat of my tongue, slow and firm until her legs start to shake. Then I pull back, just enough to make her whimper.

“Max,” she gasps, already breathless.

“Let me,” I murmur against her. “Let me take you apart.”

She nods furiously, fists twisting in the sheets.

I dip my tongue lower, dragging it through her folds, drinking her in like I’ve been starving for her taste. Because I fucking have. Her thighs clench around my ears, but I don’t stop. I go deeper. Flicking, sucking, worshipping.

When I slide two fingers inside her, she cries out—raw, desperate.

“That’s it,” I growl, licking harder, curling my fingers just right.

Her whole body bows off the bed. Her breath turns erratic.

I feel it when she breaks.

She comes with a strangled moan, thighs shaking, hips rocking helplessly as I hold her down and keep licking until she can’t take it anymore.

She comes again. Fucking again. I make sure of it.

By the time I kiss my way back up her body, she’s panting, wrecked, eyes glazed with pleasure and emotion.

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

“You okay?” I ask softly, brushing her hair from her damp forehead.

She laughs breathlessly. “Are you okay? Because I think I saw God.”

I grin and kiss her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

She pulls me on top of her, wrapping her legs around my waist. “Now it’s your turn.” Her mouth crashes into mine like she needs me inside her now .

“Condom,” she rasp.

She fumbles in the drawer beside the bed like she already knew there'd be one there. Smart girl.

I roll it on, then settle between her legs. Our eyes lock.

“Max…” she breathes.

I push in slow. Inch by inch. Feeling every fucking flutter, every squeeze. Her nails dig into my back, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

This isn’t just sex.

This is a line we’re crossing, and we both know it.

I start to move, deep and steady, keeping my rhythm unhurried. Her legs wrap around me. Her breath catches on every thrust. I watch her fall apart under me—this strong, brilliant woman unraveling because of me .

“You feel like heaven,” I groan, pressing my forehead to hers.

“You are ,” she whispers.

That breaks something in me. I start to thrust harder, deeper, still controlled but with more heat. Her moans turn urgent, and when she comes again, it’s with a choked sound and a tremble that takes me with her.

I come hard, every muscle locking, my face buried in her neck, her name a low growl on my lips.

When I finally roll to the side and pull her into me, neither of us says anything for a long time.

She rests her head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns over my stomach.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she says softly.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

I kiss the top of her head. “I’ve got more.”

She laughs—quiet, content—and I feel it vibrate through my chest.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this close to someone.

This chosen. This sure I’d burn the world to keep her safe.

And God help me—I want to.

I stroke her back, her breath warm against my chest.

“Morgan…”

She hums.

“Will you let me protect you?”

She doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

She just lifts her head and kisses me—slow, steady, sure.

But I do remember. The last time I felt chosen and loved.

And right now, memory and reality collide—and my heart wants to explode in war.

Maybe six weeks won’t be enough.

Maybe nothing will.

We lie tangled in sheets, her breath evening out against my chest, neither of us willing to break the spell. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time feels different here.

When I break the silence, my voice is soft in the dark. "Hungry?" I ask, trailing my fingers down her spine.

"Starving." She props herself up on an elbow. "Please tell me you have food in that fancy fridge."

“Hey,” I say, pulling on sweats, “are you mocking me or my fridge right now?”

“Both.” She grins. “But mostly the fridge.”

“Rude,” I mutter. “I haven’t replaced it because I like sleeping to the hum.”

She arches a brow. “That’s weird.”

“It’s comforting. And you’re in luck. Leftover Thai and secret ice cream.”

Her eyes light up. “You had me at ‘leftover.’ And secret ice cream?"

"The kind I don't let Stanley know about."

I disappear into the kitchen, her laugh following me. When I return, it’s with a half-eaten container of pad see ew, two spoons, and a pint of mint chocolate chip. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my Henley. The sight hits me like a body check. She looks at home.

The sight does things to my chest.

“Okay,” she says, accepting a spoon. “Secret ice cream and noodles. What other secrets are you hiding, Dalton?”

“Besides my thing for vets?”

She laughs through a mouthful. “Seriously. Tell me something real. Something not in those press releases.”

I settle beside her, watching her lick sauce from her spoon. “Like what?”

“Like... why hockey?”

"Ah." I take a bite, buying time. "Family thing. My dad played."

"Was he good?"

"The best." I pause. "At hockey, anyway."

She catches the tone. "Not at other things?"

“Not at being a dad.” I shrug. “He was gone more than he was around. I think he thought paying for gear was enough. Let's just say Stanley's better at emotional support."

“What about your mom?”

I swallow. My mom passed six years ago. Sadness. A story for another time.”

“Any siblings?” she asks gently.

I hesitate. “I wish. But no.” I run a hand through my hair.

She’s quiet for a beat. Then, “I don’t have any either.

But I met Amanda on my first day of undergrad.

My lab partner. She bossed me around, and I bossed her right back, and somehow we just..

. clicked.” Her smile turns wistful. “We started talking about opening a clinic before we even applied to vet school. Everyone thought we were nuts.”

“But you did it anyway.”

She nods, proud and still a little disbelieving. “We signed the lease on the clinic the day we graduated. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister. We fight like siblings, too.”

“Sounds like family to me.”

She dips her head in acknowledgment. “My parents are messy, loud, and half-feral on game nights. Not perfect—but they’re mine.”

We fall quiet, passing the food back and forth. When the last noodle disappears, she leans into me, head on my shoulder. I reach for the ice cream.

She's quiet for a moment. "My dad cried when I got into vet school." She smiles at the memory. "Mom too. They'd saved every penny, worked extra shifts. Dad even sold his truck."

"They sound amazing."

"They are." She takes another bite. "Not rich, but... present. You know?"

I do. Too well.

"Your turn. Tell me something else not in your clinic bio."

She sets down her spoon. "I cry. Every time I lose a patient."

"Morgan..."

"Not just tears. Full ugly crying in my office." She meets my eyes. "Amanda brings ice cream. Not the secret kind—the gas station emergency kind."

I pull her closer. "That's not weakness, you know."

"I know." She traces patterns on my chest. "But sometimes I wonder if I care too much."

"Not possible."

We fall quiet, sharing secret ice cream with only the city lights outside and the hum of the fridge. Her head finds my shoulder. My fingers find her hair.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me see the real you."

I press my lips to her forehead, ignoring the ache in my chest. Because she doesn't see all of me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But right now, with her warm and soft in my arms, tasting like mint and trust and possibility...

Right now is enough.

It has to be.