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Chapter Eight

Cassie

I shouldn't be here.

This is stupid. A mistake. A lapse in judgment so massive it might qualify as a second personality.

But I need to know.

I need to know why he was there today. Why Jackson was staring at me from across the room at a hockey event, those impossibly sexy eyes tracking my every movement like I was the only woman in a sea of faces.

The hallway stretches in front of me like a scene from a movie I've seen before. The gold-plated room numbers familiar, low warm light spilling from sconces that have guided the way before, polished mirrors catching glimpses of my reflection as I pass.

This is about paperwork , I tell myself. It’s just a conversation. Nothing more.

But my body knows better.

Each step brings a memory flooding back from the last time I walked this hallway. Flashbulb images exploding behind my eyes, vivid and visceral like never before.

Flashes of laughter, the clink of glasses, and the weight of Jackson's arm around my waist. The way he leaned in, his breath hot on my ear, whispering something that made me laugh so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet.

The image of Jackson's strong hands pushing me against a wall, his lips trailing down my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

Why is it right now that I remember the moment he dropped to his knees in the hallway, pushing my dress up like it was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap? Why can I suddenly feel the brush of his lips behind my knee? The trail of heat as his mouth moved higher?

Why can I almost hear him whispering, “Tell me you want this.”

Why now?!

All of a sudden, the memories are vivid, almost painfully so.

Taking a deep breath, I pause on the spot and try to steady myself.

The memories are too strong, too overwhelming. I can see it all so clearly now, the night my life changed, the night I married a stranger.

"Stop it ," I hiss at myself. "Get a grip ."

This is not about reliving the world’s hottest drunken memory. This is about dissolving a legal accident.

But what if he’s mad?

Worse—what if he’s not?

What if he looks at me the way he did that night and says he doesn’t want it to end?

What if I don’t?

I reach Room 241 and I take a long, calming breath as my hand hovers over the door.

I knock, three quick taps against the polished wood. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

The door swings open, and—oh.

Oh. Oh no.

Jackson stands there, all bare chest and low-slung sweatpants, looking like he just stepped out of my most inconvenient fantasy. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges like he's fresh from the shower.

A lazy, dangerous smile spreads across his face when he sees me.

"You came," he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.

He leans against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like he was expecting me.

I force my eyes to stay on his face, not the sculpted planes of his chest or the defined V disappearing into his waistband.

"Relax. I'm just here to sign the papers."

His smile widens, dimples appearing like they're designed specifically to wreck my fragile composure.

"Is that what you think I invited you up for?"

I turn to face him, chin up. "You texted me. You said we needed to talk."

"We do," he says, grinning. "I just didn’t say which part of you I’d be talking to."

I cross my arms, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. "Try the one with a brain. Not the one that wore a wedding dress."

He steps forward slowly, like a lion stalking prey. His abs tighten, each sculpted ridge flexing with restrained power, the kind that promises rough hands and filthy intentions.

"Right. Because she’s long gone now, isn’t she?" he says gruffly.

"That girl had tequila for blood and bad decisions for breakfast."

He tilts his head, like he’s studying me. "And yet here you are."

"Here I am," I snap, "trying to undo one of those bad decisions. Starting with the part where you stop talking like we’re still tangled in that chapel bathroom."

He steps back, gesturing me inside. The room is plush, scattered with papers and takeout containers.

All the signs of someone living out of a suitcase but doing it in style.

The lights are dimmed, creating a smooth atmosphere that feels way too…

intimate for the heat suddenly rushing through my body.

The door closes behind me. Jackson takes a slow step forward, and I take an instinctive step back.

"So… you work for the NHL Draft now?" he asks, pacing in front of me, calm and sharp all at once. "Bit odd, don't you think? Planning events for the sport you say you hate?"

"It’s a job."

He doesn’t stop moving. Just paces a slow circle, pulling the air around me tighter, making it harder and harder to breathe.

"No. It’s not just a job. You knew exactly what that event was."

"Of course I did. I took it anyway."

"Why?" he demands. "Because Daddy asked?"

I flinch. Shit.

He knows who my father is. How does he know who my father is?

"Don’t call him that."

"But that’s who you are, right?" he says, circling back. "Big Mike’s daughter. The one who claims to hate everything about the game, and yet you’re front and center at the biggest hockey event of the year. Why?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"It matters to me." He steps in close, so close I feel his breath against the side of my neck. His fingers trail lightly along my arm, not quite touching, just close enough to make my skin prickle. "Because I need to know what the hell I married."

My breath catches. That word again— married .

"So tell me, Cassie. Are you a liar?"

My jaw clenches. "No. I was working."

"You hate hockey." His voice wraps around me. "I haven't been able to forget you, Cassie."

His palm skims the curve of my waist, lingering as if memorizing the shape of me. I swallow hard, my pulse racing.

"Look, about the other night—"

He moves closer, the heat from his body radiating between us, his chest brushing my back. "Tell me, Cassie Hawthorne , what's a hockey hater doing poking around the Draft?"

I frown, confusion cutting through the desire. I should be asking him the same fucking thing. But all I can feel is his fingertips drifting lower, ghosting just beneath the hem of my blouse like a wicked promise.

I shake my head, breath shaky. "This was a mistake. Coming here."

His hands suddenly find my hips and he hauls me into place with a growl. I feel the thick press of his arousal against my ass, and heat surges between my thighs. He bends me gently at the waist, his palms sliding down to mold over my ass, possessive and slow and so fucking good.

My nipples tighten beneath my blouse, aching with how turned on I am. My breath stutters.

"Tell me to stop, Cassie."

"I—"

"Tell me you don’t want this."

"I shouldn’t," I breathe. "I really shouldn’t—"

"But you do."

He spins me around with a firm tug, one hand gripping my ass, the other slipping up my spine. I gasp as our bodies press flush, the heat of his bare chest against my thin blouse igniting every nerve ending.

His mouth hovers over mine, so close our lips almost brush. My hands flatten against his chest, his muscles tensing beneath my palms like coiled steel.

"This doesn’t fix anything," I whisper, my voice trembling with need.

"Not trying to fix it." His lips skim mine, just once, cruelly soft. "Just trying to feel it again . To feel you again … "

And that’s when I break.

The kiss explodes, so hard and hungry, all teeth and heat that swallows whatever argument I was preparing.

I fist my hands in his damp hair as he lifts me effortlessly, spinning and pressing me hard against the door. My legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth leaves a trail down my jaw, nipping my throat, tasting the hollow of my collarbone.

"Fuck, Cassie," he mutters, his voice hoarse as he grinds against me. "You have no idea what you do to me."

His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks like I’m fragile. His hips say otherwise, thrusting slow and hard through his sweatpants, dragging fire straight across my aching core.

Every rational thought is incinerated.

My hands slide up his back, nails dragging, digging into his skin, just to hear the hiss of his breath.

I should be asking questions. I should be demanding answers.

Instead, I kiss him deeper, letting the heat drown me. Letting him claim me like I already belong to him.

At least this time, I’ll remember his touch.

At least this time, it won’t be tequila and glitter and blackout kisses behind velvet ropes.

This time… I want it.

Jackson cups my jaw with one hand, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head as his tongue tangles with mine. He groans my name into my mouth like it’s painful . Like it’s cost him something to hold back this long.

And then his other hand slips between us.

I gasp as his fingers pop open the button on my jeans, dipping inside like he owns the space. His palm finds the lace of my panties, the soaked center of them, and he groans again.

“ Fuck, Cassie,” he breathes, rubbing tight, slow circles over my clit with maddening light pressure. “You’re dripping.”

My head falls back against the door, small moans escaping my lips.

“We’re not… we’re not signing anything, are we?”

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with another kiss, this one even harder and more punishing, like he needs to shut me up and ruin me at the same time.

His fingers slide past the lace, stroking my bare heat. I choke on a moan, my thighs trembling, my hips rolling to meet every touch.

He presses closer, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, locking us together like I was meant to fit there.

He groans against my throat, licking down the column of my neck, biting just hard enough to make me whimper.

“You’re not a good girl,” he grunts, grinding against me, his cock thick and hard under his sweats. “You pretend you are, but you came here knowing exactly what would happen.”

“Jackson…” My voice breaks apart, breathless and wet.

“You came here for this.” He rocks his hips against my core again. “You wanted this.”

"I do," I moan loudly, letting him roll against my pussy. "God, I do."

Every nerve ending is lit. My nipples rub against the thin lace of my bra, achingly stiff. My pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for more than just fingers. More than just friction.

“I’m not… I can’t—” I start, trying to hang onto something resembling logic.

But he’s already lifting me off the floor, palms under my ass, mouth devouring every gasp I give him.

His breath is hot in my ear. “We’re doing this, Cassie.”

My head falls back, hair brushing the door. His hands grip me tighter, positioning me against the wall like a promise to take whatever he damn well wants.

“We’re doing this,” I echo, breathless. “But just one time…”

I don’t believe it even as I say it.

But it’s the lie I need right now.

And as his mouth crashes into mine again, I let it be true… even if it's just for tonight.