Page 47

ALDER

I can't stop looking at her. All the way to my townhouse, I steal glances at Lena in the passenger seat—the curve of her jaw, her fingers tap nervously against her thigh, the slight smile that appears and disappears as she processes everything that just happened.

Neither of us speaks, the air between us electric with anticipation.

We've said what matters in front of cameras and management; now we need to say the rest with our bodies.

Gordie greets us at the door with the appropriate enthusiasm, his entire body wiggling with joy. He circles Lena's legs, whining and snuffling, ecstatic that she's back where he believes she belongs.

"I think someone missed you," I say, the first words either of us has spoken since leaving the parking garage.

"I missed him too," Lena says, crouching to scratch behind Gordie's ears. When she looks up at me, her eyes are bright with emotion. "I missed both of you."

The press conference feels like it happened in another lifetime. The carefully worded statements, the professional posturing, the tension of waiting for consequences—all of it fades in the face of this moment. Lena, back in my home. Our home, if she wants it to be .

"Are you hungry?" I ask because I need to say something… anything to keep from grabbing her right here in the entryway.

She straightens, stepping closer to me. "Not for food."

My breath catches in my throat. Gordie, oblivious to the tension building between us, chooses this moment to bring over his favorite chew toy, dropping it at our feet with an expectant woof.

"Not now, buddy," I tell him, not taking my eyes off Lena.

"We should probably..." she begins.

"Yeah," I agree, understanding immediately.

I scoop up Gordie, who protests with a confused whine, and carry him to my bedroom. I grab his favorite treats from the dresser, scatter them on the floor, and then add his second-favorite toy for good measure.

"Stay," I tell him firmly, backing out of the room and closing the door.

The soft click of the latch is like a starting gun. When I turn, Lena is there, just steps away in the hallway, her eyes dark with want. We stare at each other for one suspended moment, the last thread of restraint stretched between us.

Then she moves. Her hands come up to my chest, pushing me back against the wall with surprising force. I go willingly, my back hitting the framed family photos with a thud.

"I've missed you so much,” she whispers against my mouth, and then she's kissing me, fierce and claiming.

I respond instantly, my hands framing her face, then sliding into her hair, destroying whatever professional style she'd carefully created this morning. She tastes like she is coming home after too long away.

The kiss deepens, months of longing and forced separation disappearing as our bodies remember each other.

Her tongue slides against mine, and I groan, pulling her closer until there's not a whisper of space between us.

She can feel exactly what she does to me, how quickly she brings me to aching hardness.

"Bedroom," I manage between kisses, though I'm already working at the buttons of her blouse.

"Too far," she gasps as my lips find her neck, her head tipping back to give me better access.

She's right. Ten steps to what was once her room—it might as well be miles. We're not going to make it.

My hands slide under her thighs, lifting her against me. Her legs wrap around my waist as I spin us, pressing her against the opposite wall. Frames rattle. Something falls. Neither of us cares.

We sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing. My tie is strangling me, and my jacket is twisted behind me like a straitjacket. Lena isn't faring much better; her blouse is hanging open but caught at her wrists, and her skirt hikes up around her hips.

I curse as I yank at my tie, somehow making the knot tighter. Lena laughs, the sound turning to a gasp as I give up on the tie and palm her breast through her bra instead.

"Let me," she says, reaching for the tie. Her fingers deftly loosen the knot that had defeated me, sliding the silk free from my collar.

The moment of pause allows me to look at her—hair mussed, lips swollen from my kisses, blouse falling open to reveal the curves I imagined. She's more beautiful than my memory, more real. And she's choosing to be here with me.

"You're gorgeous," I tell her, my voice rough.

"So are you," she says, working at the buttons of my shirt. "But you're wearing too many clothes."

We're not gentle with each other. Can't be, after everything. This isn't the tender exploration of our first time together or the comfortable familiarity of the mornings that followed. This is claiming. Reclaiming. A physical declaration of what we've both finally admitted we want .

My shirt joins my tie and jacket on the hallway floor. Her blouse and bra follow. My hands slide up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, finding the edge of her underwear—simple black cotton that somehow drives me crazier than any lace could.

"These need to go," I mutter, hooking my fingers in the waistband and dragging them down her legs.

She kicks them away, then reaches for my belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. "Fair is fair."

I help her, lifting my hips to shove my pants and boxers down, not bothering to take them all the way off. I need her too badly for finesse.

But when I move to climb over her, she plants a hand on my chest, holding me back. "Not yet."

Confused, I pause. "Lena?"

Her eyes are dark and determined. "I want to taste you first."

The words send a jolt of heat through me. But as she starts to move down my body, I catch her shoulders, gently stopping her.

"Me first," I say, and before she can protest, I shift our positions, laying her back on the hallway floor.

I take my time with her body, even as my own throbs with need. I press kisses to her neck, her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts. She arches beneath me, hands in my hair, trying to direct me where she wants me.

"Patience," I murmur against her skin, though I have none myself.

When I finally reach her thighs, I can't help myself. I've fantasized about this since the day she moved out—about marking her pale skin, leaving evidence of my possession that only we would know about. I bite down, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to leave a mark.

She cries out, but not in protest. Her hands tighten in my hair, pulling me closer rather than pushing me away. I do it again, a little higher, a little harder. The sound she makes is primal and needy.

"More," she demands, and it unlocks something savage inside me.

I've always been careful with lovers, mindful of my size and strength. But Lena isn't fragile and doesn't want me to be gentle right now. She wants the defender, the man who protects what's his on the ice and off it.

I nip and suck at the tender skin of her inner thighs, painting a constellation of marks that bloom pink and then darker beneath my mouth. Each one draws a gasp or moan from her, her thick legs falling wider to give me better access.

When I finally move higher, tasting her where she's wet and wanting, she nearly flies off the floor. Her back arches beautifully, a string of curses falling from her lips that would make my teammates blush.

I grip her hips, holding her in place as I devour her. There's no teasing, no drawing it out—just relentless pressure and rhythm that has her climbing toward release with stunning speed.

"Alder," she gasps, her thighs trembling against my shoulders. "I'm going to?—"

"Let go," I urge against her most sensitive spot. "Let me feel you."

Her orgasm crashes through her with an intensity that surprises us both. She cries out my name, her body shaking, hands fisted in my hair almost painfully. I work her through it, easing only when she tugs me away, suddenly oversensitive.

I rise to my knees, lifting her with me. We're still in the hallway, half-clothed and fully desperate. I want more space and more comfort for what comes next.

"Living room," I decide, scooping her into my arms.

She comes willingly, wrapping around me as I carry her the short distance to the larger space. I lay her on the soft rug in front of the couch, taking a moment to admire the mess I’ve made of her.

This time, I take a more measured approach. I kiss each part of her methodically, relearning the geography of her body. The curve of her waist, the soft plane of her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. She watches me through heavy-lidded eyes, letting me explore without rushing me.

"I missed touching you," I confess between kisses. "Missed the way you feel under my hands."

"Show me," she whispers.

I slide my fingers between her legs, finding her still sensitive but already building toward another peak. Her breath hitches as I circle her most sensitive spot, then dip lower to tease her entrance.

"Yes," she hisses, her hips lifting to meet my touch.

I work her with my fingers, watching her face as pleasure builds again. She's more vocal now, less inhibited, directing me with words and movements. More of me. Faster. Harder. There.

Her second orgasm is slower to build but stronger when it hits. Her inner muscles clench around my fingers as she pulses and shudders. I press my lips to her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my mouth.

"You're incredible," I murmur against her skin.

She comes down slowly, her breathing gradually steadying. When she opens her eyes, they are filled with new determination.

"My turn," she says, pushing at my shoulders.

I allow her to maneuver me onto my back, curious to see what she has in mind. She straddles my thighs, her hands splayed across my chest. I'm almost painfully hard, have been since we started, but I don't rush her.