Page 7 of Rematch (Stingrays Hockey #3)

Rather, she leaned toward him and let her lips tell him in a different, hotter way.

He pulled her toward him, wrapping her in his embrace, refusing to let this kiss end too soon.

Kissing her was a heady thing. She hummed against his mouth, the heat between them rising until he was tempted to rip off these damn sweaters—hers and his.

He wasn’t sure how many minutes—or maybe hours—they sat there, simply kissing.

As they’d talked, he’d been vaguely aware of the noise surrounding them outside this room…

the music, the loud voices, the laughter.

All of that vanished as they kissed, his entire universe whittled down to this tiny space, this woman, this kiss.

When they parted, she gave him a breathy, giddy laugh, and he couldn’t resist pulling her into his arms, hugging her tightly.

Then, she gave him what he’d been wanting all night.

“Chelsea,” she whispered in his ear.

He was overwhelmed by the desire to keep her in his arms. Then he realized the best way to accomplish that. “Dance with me, Chelsea.”

He was pleased when she stood immediately.

When Preston first arrived, Elio had met him at the door, warning him that Gianna had lost her mind when it came to organizing and decorating for the evening.

Then he proceeded to tell him how he and his brothers and cousins had spent the better part of the day moving furniture.

Apparently, the entire dining room suite was in the garage for the evening because Gianna insisted they needed a proper dance floor.

Preston had thought that over-the-top and crazy a few hours earlier, but now he was glad Gianna had gone to the effort.

Especially when the two of them fought their way through the crowd bumping and grinding on the dining room dance floor and claimed their own bit of space.

There wasn’t a lot of room, which was fine with him, because it meant he could pull her close.

The upbeat number had a thumping rhythm, and they moved together.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands stroking up and down her sides.

While her sweater was cute and funny as shit, it was too bulky for him right now. What would he give to slip his hands underneath the thick material to feel her curves? Or better yet, to take her up on that offer to “feel the joy.”

She was a great dancer, moving in time to the song, her legs split by one of his so that when he tugged her even closer, it felt as if she was riding his thigh.

Too much more of this and he’d never be able to keep his erection at bay. He’d been sporting a half-chub ever since dragging her to the back porch and claiming a spot next to her on the couch.

Her hands slid along his thighs, moving upward until she fisted his sweater near his waist. She looked up at the same time he glanced down, their faces inches from each other.

He closed the distance, giving her a quick kiss. Chelsea returned it, then pressed the side of her face to his shoulder as he raised one hand, cupping the back of her neck, holding her there, against him.

God, she smelled good. Like cinnamon and apples.

He bent his head, his cheek resting against the top of her head.

She raised her hands to his back, caressing up and down—at least as much as the stupid Christmas lights he’d wrapped around the sweater would allow.

He was ripping them off the second they took a break from dancing so he could feel more of her hands on him.

Unable to resist, he placed a knuckle under her chin, lifting it so that he could place a kiss on her cheek, then another. Chelsea nuzzled closer, like a kitten, purring, begging for more.

They’d spent the last couple of hours talking, getting to know one another, yet it felt as if they were saying more here…now…with this dance and these kisses.

He was thrilled this attraction wasn’t one-sided, but there was something else more shocking than his sudden, intense sexual desire.

It was the realization that if Chelsea didn’t want to take things to the next level, he’d be just as happy to sit next to her for the rest of the night, merely talking.

Preston wasn’t one of those love-at-first-sight guys, a firm believer that love took time.

But damn if he didn’t think this woman and tonight might convince him otherwise.

The second she ran into him, he’d felt a connection—literally and figuratively.

She was easy to talk to, smart, pretty, and funny.

She ticked every single one of his boxes.

“Chels!” A woman next to them danced closer, her eyes widening as she looked at him. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.”

Preston assumed this was the friend Allyson, given the fact she was wearing the exact same sweater as Chelsea. He laughed when she gave him a once-over, then a twice-over, before fist-bumping Chelsea.

“Damn, girl. Good job!”

A guy came up behind Allyson, wrapping his hand around her waist and drawing her into a bump and grind. “Thought I lost you, babe.”

Allyson shimmied against her dance partner. “Best. Night. Ever. You two don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she joked. Then added, “Which leaves your night wide open!”

Allyson disappeared back into the throng of dancers with her guy as Chelsea laughed. “She’s kind of a lot, but I love her.”

“She’s cool. I’m glad she dragged you out tonight.”

“Me too. Lucky she scored those tickets at the last minute.”

“I was a late addition as well. Didn’t plan to come until yesterday morning, when my buddy called to invite me.”

“Incredible. It’s like fate was drawing us here together.” She blushed when she realized what she’d said. “God. Now you’ve got me delivering cheesy lines.”

“There wasn’t a damn thing cheesy about that. I think you’re right. Us meeting. It was fate. Serendipity.”

The song ended, a slow one starting. Chelsea shifted slightly, their bodies connecting in a different, more intimate way as she placed her head against his chest again. He tightened his grip, the two of them swaying in time.

Preston had danced with countless women in his life, but it felt different with Chelsea, and he wondered why.

Not that he’d have too long to ponder it. She was leaving for Paris in a week.

When he was younger, he wouldn’t have had a problem initiating a no-strings-attached one-night stand with Chelsea.

But he hated the idea of it tonight. Because she was a woman he wanted to spend more time with, wanted to get to know on a much more personal level.

In truth, she was exactly his type. Which was funny, because before Chelsea, he didn’t realize he had a type.

She lifted her head, looking up at him. “I haven’t slow danced with anyone in ages. Most of my dancing lately has been shaking my ass with Ethan and Allyson in nightclubs. This is nice.”

“It’s very nice.” He hated the idea of someone as sweet as Chelsea reeling for so long from a broken heart. He had the uncharacteristic desire to find her ex and punch the guy’s lights out.

She must have read that intention, his poker face failing. “I let the pity party go into overtime. I shouldn’t have done that. Tonight, with you…”

She paused, and when it felt like she wouldn’t continue, he prodded, curious about what she’d planned to say.

“Tonight?”

She didn’t reply immediately, but he got the feeling it wasn’t because she didn’t want to. More like, she wasn’t sure how to. Finally, she said, “Everything feels right.”

It felt more than right. It felt perfect.

The song ended and they stepped apart, even though letting her go was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Come with me.” He took her hand and pulled her back toward the kitchen. He stopped as they stepped beneath the mistletoe, drawing her into his arms again.

“Finally.” Her sexy whisper and dimpled grin were too adorable to resist. She lifted her face to his, a clear invitation, one he was not going to refuse.

He took her in his arms, and when his lips touched hers, it was no quick peck.

Her lips parted, their tongues finding each other.

He tasted the wine she’d been drinking on her breath.

Lifting his hand to the back of her head, he deepened the kiss, the two of them taking their time to explore, to discover.

She was one hell of a kisser, adventurous, daring, holding back nothing. He loved the feeling of her hands at his hips, his dick growing thicker when she slipped them beneath his sweater, stroking bare skin.

He ran his fingers through her hair, then closed his fist in it, tightening the grip slowly until she gave him what he wanted, a low, throaty moan that told him this woman would be a spitfire in bed.

He hadn’t had a one-night stand in three years, determined the last one would be the last .

He’d had too many shots, celebrating a big win that night, and he’d let the alcohol do his thinking.

Preston had woken up the next morning in his own bed, hungover as hell, sleeping next to a naked woman whose name he didn’t remember.

Not exactly his finest moment. Especially when it had taken him the better part of that day to get the woman out of his apartment.

In his alcohol-laden stupor, he’d managed to pick up a stage-three clinger, one he’d stupidly given his cell number to while drunk off his ass.

He’d had to block her number after two dozen voicemails and twice that many texts.

Mercifully, she’d drawn the line at stopping by his apartment, but he’d made a vow, one that he stuck to, that one-night stands were off the table, and he wouldn’t bring a woman to his bed if they weren’t in a relationship.

That oath was on shaky ground tonight, because there was nothing he wanted to do more than take Chelsea to bed and expand on this fucking incredible kiss.

Chelsea was the first to break free, though her actions had less to do with desire and more to do with the fact they needed to come up for air.

“Preston.” Her cheeks were flushed in a way that told him she was feeling the same heated desire he was.

The crowd had started to thin out, though there were still plenty of partygoers who looked ready to keep things going until dawn.

His plan had been to stay a couple hours, then drive back to Baltimore, so he hadn’t bothered booking a room here, or at any other hotel.

No stranger to keeping late hours, he’d been fine with driving at night, intending to be home and in his own bed by one or two a.m. at the latest. That idea had flown out of the window the second Chelsea had come onto the scene.

“Wanna leave?” she asked.

“Together?” His response made it clear too much of the blood in his body had flowed away from his brain, occupying a place farther south. His dick was so hard right now, he was in pain, the zipper of his jeans likely to leave a permanent imprint.

She nodded, though hesitantly, and he saw the slightest bit of doubt begin to creep in. He hated it. Hated that her stupid ex had made her question her worth.

“Chelsea, I want you so much, it hurts. But I have to ask…there’s been no one since Rick, has there?”

She sighed. “No one before, either.”

Preston gave her a quick kiss, impressed by her honesty.

He thought that might be a huge part of the appeal of this woman.

He’d spent too much of the last decade and a half around women who would say anything—most of it lies—to catch his attention or impress him.

He didn’t doubt every word Chelsea said tonight had been the truth, and she hadn’t shied away from telling him the uncomfortable stuff—like being jilted at the altar.

“Are you sure?” he forced himself to ask, praying to every single deity she said yes.

Once again, she took the time to consider his question, which reassured him way more than an immediate response would. Because she wasn’t being impulsive.

Finally, after what felt like a hundred years, she gave him a smile that was pure seduction. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

He took her hand in his, lifting it and kissing her palm. “Let’s go.”