Page 7 of Slap Shot (Charm City Chill #3)

H eather

Heather's hands shook. The damn key wouldn't turn, and she could feel Oliver watching her fumble with the lock like some nervous teenager.

Impatiently she jiggled the key again, metal grinding against metal in the quiet hallway.

Behind her, Oliver shifted his weight, and the movement sent his scent washing over her—soap and something warm and male that made her stomach flip.

"Easy," he said, his voice so close to her ear that she shivered.

The lock clicked open. She pushed through the door fast, needing space to breathe, but Oliver was right behind her, bringing all that careful energy into her living room. Charlie pushed past both of them, completely unbothered by the tension crackling between them.

Charlie settled onto the carpet in the living room with a contented sigh, as if he'd been here dozens of times before. Heather watched him claim his spot, using the moment to steady her breathing. Her mouth was dry, and she wiped her palms against her jeans.

"Would you like something to drink?" The words tumbled out faster than she'd intended.

"I have beer, or wine, or I think there's some whiskey somewhere if you—" She caught herself rambling and forced her mouth to stop moving.

Oliver was watching her with those dark eyes, and she couldn't read his expression in the dim light filtering through her blinds.

"Wine sounds good," Oliver said. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of her couch.

Heather nodded and escaped to the kitchen, grateful for something to do with her hands.

She pulled a bottle of red from the small rack on her counter.

It was nothing fancy, but it was better than the cheap stuff she usually bought.

The corkscrew was clumsy in her fingers as she worked it into the cork, hyperaware of Oliver moving around her living room, probably taking in the sparse furniture and the bank of laptops on her coffee table.

She'd never brought a man here before. Never wanted to.

The cork came free with a soft pop, and she poured two glasses, the wine splashing slightly as her hand trembled.

When she turned around, Oliver was standing in the doorway between her kitchen and living room, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

He'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and she stared at his forearms, at the way the fabric pulled across his chest.

"Your place is nice," he said, accepting the glass she offered him.

She took a sip of wine, hoping it would calm her nerves, but the alcohol only seemed to heighten her awareness that Oliver was in her personal space. "It's nothing special. I haven't really had time to decorate much since I moved in."

Oliver's gaze moved around the room, taking in the bare walls and minimal furniture. "How long have you been here?"

"Six months." She wrapped both hands around her wine glass, using it as a barrier between them. "I had to sell the house in the divorce. This seemed like a good fresh start."

The mention of her ex-husband hung in the air between them, and Heather immediately regretted bringing it up. Nothing like talking about your failed marriage to kill the mood. But Oliver didn't seem fazed.

"Fresh starts can be good," he said, stepping closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Sometimes you need to burn everything down before you can build something better."

The wine glass was slippery in her hands. Heather set it down on the counter behind her, needing something to anchor herself as Oliver moved even closer. The kitchen suddenly felt small, the air thick with everything they weren't saying.

"Is that what you did?" she asked. "Burn everything down when you stopped hacking?"

"More or less." His free hand came up to touch her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone. "Had to leave a lot behind to get here."

Heather's breath caught. She wanted to know all about his life before hockey, but she didn't push. Instead, she focused on the warmth of his palm against her skin, the way his eyes were devouring her.

"Oliver." His name came out as barely more than a whisper.

He set his wine glass down beside hers without breaking eye contact, the soft clink of glass against granite loud in the quiet space. When his other hand settled on her waist, Heather’s pulse jumped.

"Tell me to stop," he said. "If this isn't what you want, tell me now."

The words stuck in her throat. This was exactly what she wanted, had been wanting since that first day in the coffee shop when he'd looked at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. But wanting something and being brave enough to take it were different things entirely.

"I don't want you to stop," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded when everything inside her felt like it was shaking apart.

When he leaned down to kiss her, it was nothing like the desperate collision on the ice. This was deliberate, unhurried, the kind of kiss that made her forget there was anywhere else she needed to be.

When he backed her against the counter, she didn't resist. The granite edge pressed into her lower back, but she barely noticed, too focused on the way Oliver's mouth moved against hers, patient and thorough and completely devastating.

"Bedroom?" he asked, the single word heavy with hope and barely restrained want.

Heather nodded, not trusting her voice. She took his hand and led him down the short hallway, past the guest room she used as an office, past the bathroom with its stack of towels that never seemed to stay folded properly.

The room was sparse like the rest of her place. There was a queen bed with white sheets, a dresser she'd bought at IKEA, and a single framed photo of her college hockey team on the nightstand.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, and she realized she'd been standing frozen in the doorway.

She turned to face him, taking in the way the hallway light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the patient way he was waiting for her to decide what happened next.

Oliver wouldn't push. She understood that about him now.

He was the kind of man who would walk away if she asked, no questions, no pressure, no making her feel guilty for changing her mind.

That certainty made the choice easier.

"No second thoughts," she said, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

Oliver's shirt came away easily, revealing the body she'd only imagined beneath all those fitted button-downs.

Hockey had carved him into something magnificent—broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist, defined abs that made her mouth go dry, muscles that flexed as he tossed the fabric aside.

But it was the scars that made her breath catch: a jagged line along his ribs, a constellation of smaller marks across his chest.

"Occupational hazards," he said, voice rough as he noticed her stare.

"They're perfect," she whispered, tracing the jagged scar with trembling fingers. His skin was hot beneath her touch, and when he shuddered, she felt a surge of feminine power she'd forgotten she possessed.

His hands found the buttons of her blouse, fingers surprisingly gentle for their size. "I've been thinking about this since that first day in the coffee shop," he murmured against her ear, his breath making her shiver. "About getting my hands on you."

"Just your hands?" The boldness of her own words surprised her.

Oliver's laugh was dark and promising. "Among other things."

When her shirt fell away, his eyes went molten. "Christ, Heather. Look at you." His palms skimmed up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her lace bra. "So fucking beautiful."

The curse word sent heat spiraling through her belly. She'd never been with a man who told her exactly what he was thinking, who looked at her like she was something precious and dirty all at once.

They worked together to shed the rest of their clothes, and when Oliver's boxer briefs hit the floor, Heather's breath caught. He was impressive everywhere, thick and hard and already slick at the tip. The sight of him made her core clench with want.

"Like what you see?" he asked, stepping closer until the heat of his body washed over her.

"God, yes." She reached for him, wrapping her fingers around his length, marveling at the way he groaned and dropped his forehead to hers.

"Fuck, your hands," he breathed, hips jerking into her touch. "I need to taste you first, though. Need to make you come on my tongue before I'm inside you."

The crude words should have shocked her, but instead they made her thighs clench together, seeking friction. Oliver noticed, his eyes dropping to where her legs pressed tight.

"Already wet for me?" He backed her onto the bed, following her down until she was spread beneath him. "Let me see."

Heather's face burned, but she let him push her thighs apart, exposing herself completely. The way he looked at her—like she was a feast he wanted to devour—made her feel beautiful instead of embarrassed.

"Perfect," he murmured, settling between her legs. "Absolutely perfect."

The first touch of his tongue made her arch off the bed, a broken moan tearing from her throat.

He worked her with skillful precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on the bundle of nerves that made her see stars.

When he added two thick fingers, curling them just right, she came apart with a cry that probably woke the neighbors.

"That's it, baby," Oliver praised against her thigh, pressing kisses to her oversensitive skin as she trembled through the aftershocks. "So responsive. So sweet."

When he moved up her body, she could taste herself on his lips, and the intimacy of it made her head spin. He was hard and heavy against her thigh, and she reached down to guide him to her entrance.

"Condom," he said, reaching for pants on the floor.

She watched him roll it on with shaking hands, then gasped as he inched forward, stretching her slowly. He was bigger than her ex, and she needed a moment to adjust.

"Okay?" Oliver asked, voice strained with the effort of holding still.

"More than okay," she breathed, rolling her hips to take him deeper.

The sound he made was pure male satisfaction. When he finally began to move, it was with controlled power that made her clutch at his shoulders. Each thrust hit something inside her that made her vision blur, building toward another climax she'd never thought possible so soon after the first.

"So tight," Oliver growled against her neck, teeth scraping her skin. "So perfect around my cock. Feel so good, Heather."

The dirty praise pushed her over the edge again, her inner walls clamping down around him as pleasure crashed through her system. Oliver followed with a harsh groan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside the condom.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets damp with sweat. Oliver's fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, and she could hear Charlie's gentle snoring from the living room.

"Holy shit," Heather whispered, still trying to catch her breath.

Oliver's laugh rumbled through his chest. "My thoughts exactly."

They stayed like that for long minutes, Oliver's fingers tracing patterns on her sweat-dampened skin while their breathing slowly returned to normal. But when she shifted against him, feeling him still semi-hard against her thigh, heat began building in her belly again.

"Again?" Oliver asked.

"I didn't know I could..." she started, then trailed off, embarrassed by her own neediness.

"Could what, baby?" His hand slid down her stomach, fingers dancing just above where she was already growing slick again. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you again," she whispered. "But different this time. I want to..."

"What?" His thumb brushed over her clit, making her gasp. "Use your words, Heather."

The commanding tone in his voice made her core clench. "I want to be on top."

Oliver's eyes went dark. "Fuck yes. I want to watch you ride me."

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him until she straddled his hips. The new position made her feel powerful and exposed all at once, especially with the way he was looking at her—like she was a goddess he wanted to worship.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, hands settling on her hips as she positioned herself above him. "All flushed and wanting me."

She sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch until he was buried completely inside her. The angle was different this time, deeper, and she had to pause to adjust to the sensation.

"Take your time," Oliver said, though she could see the strain in his jaw, the way his fingers dug into her hips. "Set the pace you need."

That's what did it. The way he put her pleasure first, even when she could see how badly he wanted to thrust up into her. She began to move, rolling her hips in a rhythm that made them both groan.

"That's it," he encouraged, one hand sliding up to cup her breast. "Use me. Take what you need."

She found her rhythm, riding him with increasing confidence as pleasure built inside her. When Oliver's thumb found her clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with her movements, she threw her head back with a cry.

"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see you when you come."

Their eyes locked as the orgasm crashed over her, more intense than the previous two. She clamped down around him, and Oliver followed with a harsh groan, his hips bucking up into her as he spilled inside the condom.

She collapsed forward onto his chest, both of them breathing hard again. Oliver's arms came around her, holding her close as aftershocks rippled through her system.

"We should probably get some sleep," she murmured against his throat, though she made no move to separate from him.

"Probably," he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "But I'm not ready to let you go yet."

"Then don't," she whispered.

They dozed intermittently, waking to touch and kiss and eventually make love a third time—slow and gentle in the pre-dawn darkness, with Oliver spooned behind her, his mouth hot against her neck as he moved inside her with lazy, deep thrusts that made her come with quiet intensity.

When morning light finally crept through her blinds, Heather woke to find Oliver already awake, watching her with dark eyes that held promises of more nights like this one.

"Morning," she said softly, suddenly shy in the daylight.

"Morning, beautiful." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Any regrets?"

She thought about it for a moment, taking in his sleep-rumpled hair and the satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Only that we waited this long."

Oliver's answering grin was pure male satisfaction. "We've got plenty of time to make up for it."