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VICTORIA

10 years later…

“ T hat chef deserves every one of those Michelin stars,” Declan says, his arm looped around my waist as we stroll through cobblestone streets. Paris glitters around us, the Eiffel Tower illuminated against the night sky.

“If you’d ordered that chocolate soufflé too, they would’ve had to wheel us out.” I laugh, leaning into him. The wine from dinner still buzzes pleasantly through my veins, making everything feel slightly magical. “Best anniversary surprise ever.”

“Ten years deserves something spectacular.” He pulls me closer, dropping a kiss on my temple. “Though pulling off a secret Paris trip with three kids and your studio schedule nearly killed me.”

“Your poker face has improved dramatically,” I admit. “I had no idea until we got to the airport.”

I wince as my feet protest another step. These designer heels looked fabulous with my little black dress, but after three hours in a restaurant, they’ve become instruments of torture.

“That’s it.” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, balancing against Declan as I slip off first one heel, then the other. The cool pavement feels heavenly against my abused soles.

“Better?” he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Much,” I sigh, dangling the shoes from my fingers. The freedom makes me giddy—or maybe that’s the wine. I can’t resist doing a quick, wobbly pirouette right there on the sidewalk.

“My ballerina,” Declan says, eyes crinkling at the corners. At thirty-eight, he’s more handsome than ever—salt and pepper threading through his hair at the temples, laugh lines framing eyes that still make my heart race.

I come out of the spin, but my wine-addled balance fails me. I stumble sideways with a surprised laugh, only to find myself swept up into Declan’s arms before I can fall.

“My hero,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Always.” His eyes darken as they hold mine. “Though I’m not putting you down until we’re in our room.”

“Declan!” I protest through my laughter. “The hotel is three blocks away!”

“Good thing I still run drills with the rookies.” He adjusts his grip and continues walking, carrying me like I weigh nothing at all.

“People are staring,” I whisper, though I make no real effort to escape.

“Let them stare.” He grins, that same smile that still makes my stomach flip after a decade together. “Maybe they’ll recognize us from that ESPN documentary last year. ‘Hockey’s Power Couple.’ What a ridiculous title.”

An elderly couple approaching gives us a disapproving look. Declan, being Declan, responds by theatrically dipping me backward and planting a kiss on my lips that leaves me wanting more.

“I love my wife,” he announces to them with zero shame. “Sue me.”

The woman’s stern expression cracks, and she mutters something in French to her husband that makes him chuckle and squeeze her hand.

“What did she say?” I ask as we continue.

“No idea, but I think we just reminded them of themselves fifty years ago.”

By the time we reach our hotel, I’m half-laughing, half-mortified by the spectacle we’ve made. The doorman raises an eyebrow but holds the door with perfect professionalism.

In the elevator, Declan still refuses to set me down. When the doors open on the fifth floor to reveal another couple waiting, the woman’s eyes widen.

“Anniversary,” Declan explains before they can ask, stepping into the hallway.

“Ten years,” I add, wiggling my fingers in a little wave as the doors close on their amused faces.

At our room, he somehow manages to fish the key card from his pocket without dropping me, then kicks the door shut behind us. Only then does he lower me slowly to my feet, his body sliding against mine in a way that sends heat spiraling through me.

“Remember our first hotel room?” he murmurs, his hands settling on my hips. “That team road trip to San Francisco?”

“How could I forget? I was terrified someone would catch us.” My fingers work at his tie, loosening it with practiced ease. “Now look at us—the entire NHL knows we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

“That charity auction last year,” he groans, his hands finding my zipper. “When you bid on your own husband.”

I laugh, feeling the dress loosen as he pulls the zipper down. “The look on the commissioner’s face when I announced I was doubling the bid for a private coaching session with Sugar City’s head coach.”

“Worth every penny.” His voice drops lower. “Especially when you showed up in that referee outfit.”

“Best thirty thousand dollars I ever spent,” I say as my dress pools at my feet. “I’m sure the Children’s Hospital appreciated the donation.”

His eyes darken as they take in the new lingerie beneath—ruby lace I bought specially for this trip. “This is definitely new.”

“Saw you looking through that old photo album last week,” I say, stepping closer to push his jacket from his shoulders. “The one from our wedding. Thought you might appreciate the reminder of our wedding night.”

“God, yes.” His hands slide reverently over the lace covering my breasts. “I also remember you changing into the most perfect emerald set when I took you home that day I stormed into your studio and proposed with a pink hair tie.”

“Most romantic proposal in history,” I tease, working his shirt buttons free. “Followed by the most public engagement announcement ever, thanks to Briar’s article and my students’ social media uploads.”

“What better way to silence the trolls,” he whispers, stepping back just enough to shrug out of his shirt.

“Hmm. I saw Dahlia watching some of those old videos last week. She said it was ‘cringe but in a kinda sweet way’.” I deliberately step back, perching on the edge of the king-sized bed.

Declan laughs, shaking his head. “Our tech-savvy children are going to be the death of my dignity. Riley showed Simon that clip of me falling during my retirement ceremony the other day. They were both crying with laughter.”

“The great Declan O’Rielly, brought down by his own skate guards,” I tease, watching as he moves toward me with that predatory grace that still makes my breath catch. Even after retiring from playing three years ago to take over as head coach, his body remains powerful, honed from years on the ice and now from running drills with players half his age.

“At least I went out with a memorable final season,” he counters, kneeling before me, his hands sliding up my thighs. “Besides, the kids have plenty of embarrassing footage of you too. Remember the studio opening in Granite City?”

I groan, covering my face. “When I broke the scissors during the ribbon during the cutting ceremony? Please tell me that’s not circulating again.”

“Dahlia found it while researching her ‘My Mom the Business Owner’ school project.” His fingers trace the edge of my stockings, sending shivers up my spine. “Simon saw it and snatched her tablet away, cackling as he showed every kid at hockey practice.”

“He didn’t.”

“Our middle child is a terror.”

“He is. A perfect combination of your charm and my stubborn streak.” I reach out to trace his jawline. “Poor Shelby has no idea what she’s in for this week.”

“She’ll survive,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up my thighs. “Her husband is Australian. He’ll tell the kids stories of drop bears and scare them straight.”

I let out a chuckle, the sound disappearing as his mouth follows his hands, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. The conversation fades as desire takes over, my fingers tangling in his hair as his lips move higher.

“I’ve missed this,” I whisper. “Just us.”

His only response is to hook his fingers into the waistband of my panties, sliding both them and my stockings down my legs with agonizing slowness. The cool air hits sensitive skin, quickly followed by the heat of his breath.

“Remember that sponsorship meeting,” he says, looking up with mischief in his eyes, “when you kept texting me under the table?”

“The Bauer executive never understood why you suddenly needed a bathroom break,” I laugh, lifting my hips to help him remove the lace. “Though I still maintain those photos were very tasteful.”

“They were art,” he agrees, sliding his hands beneath me, pulling me to the edge of the bed. “My wife, the photographer.”

“My husband, the muse.”

Further conversation becomes impossible as his mouth finds me, tongue circling with practiced precision. My fingers tighten in his hair as pleasure builds, tension coiling tight at my core. Ten years of marriage has perfected this dance between us—the knowing touches, the rhythm that builds just right.

When he slides two fingers inside, curving upward to hit exactly the right spot, I break apart with his name on my lips. The orgasm washes through me in waves, my body trembling as he coaxes out every sensation.

Before I can recover, he rises, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tastes of desire and me. I reach between us to unfasten his pants, pushing them down his hips along with his boxers.

“I need you,” I whisper, scooting back on the bed and pulling him with me.

He settles between my thighs, entering me with one deep thrust that makes us both groan. After all these years, the feeling of completeness when we’re joined remains overwhelming. He stills for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, our breathing synchronized.

“I love you,” he says, the simplicity of the words contrasting with the depth of meaning behind them. “More now than ever.”

“Show me,” I challenge, rolling my hips to urge him into motion.

He begins to move, setting a rhythm that builds steadily. Each thrust hits deeper, angled perfectly from years of learning each other’s bodies. My legs wrap around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back to pull him closer.

“Do you remember,” he pants, pace quickening, “that time in the ballet studio after hours?”

“When Teagan almost walked in on us?” I gasp as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Thank god for loud door hinges.”

“Worth the risk.” His control slips further, movements becoming more urgent. “God, Victoria. Nobody else has ever made me feel like this.”

I pull him down for a fierce kiss, nails dragging down his back the way I know drives him wild. His hand slips between us, finding the bundle of nerves that sends me spiraling toward a second release.

“Come with me, my love, my wife,” he growls against my ear, the familiar words sending a shiver down my spine.

The pleasure crests suddenly, pulling a cry from deep in my throat. Declan follows moments later, my name on his lips as he shudders against me.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, skin cooling in the Paris night air that drifts through the balcony doors. Declan traces patterns across my stomach while I run my fingers through his hair, comfort and intimacy woven together.

“Sometimes I still can’t believe this is real,” he says softly. “That press conference could have backfired spectacularly.”

“Instead, it launched a movement.” I smile at the memory. “Remember that first game back? When those fans showed up with the body positivity signs?”

“‘Hockey Is For Every Body,’“ he quotes, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

“And to think, it all started because you couldn’t keep your lips to yourself after scoring a goal.” I turn to face him, studying the face I’ve watched change over a decade. “Who knew one kiss could change so many lives?”

Declan reaches for the champagne chilling beside the bed—ordered before dinner in anticipation of this moment. Water drips from the melted ice, and he wipes it dry before he pops the cork and pours two glasses, handing one to me.

“To leaps of faith,” he says, raising his glass.

“To second chances,” I reply, clinking mine against his.

As the champagne fizzes over my tongue, I think about our journey. From reluctant ballet instructor and cocky hockey player to partners in every sense of the word. The path wasn’t always smooth—three pregnancies, his transition from player to coach, my studio expansions, the constant juggling of careers and family—but every challenge only strengthened what we built together.

Declan sets aside his glass, drawing me back into his arms. His kiss tastes of champagne and unspoken promises.

“You know what I miss?” I ask, trailing my fingers down his chest.

“What’s that?”

“The storage closet at Natalie’s restaurant.” I bite my lip, memories sending heat pooling low in my belly. “Remember how crowded it was? How we had to be so quiet?”

His eyes darken instantly. “You almost got us caught.”

“Me?” I laugh. “You’re the one who rattled the shelves.”

“Because you did that thing with your hips,” he defends, hands already wandering lower. “You fight dirty, Fletcher.”

“It’s O’Rielly now,” I remind him, rolling on top to straddle his hips. “Has been for a decade.”

His hands grip my waist, eyes traveling over my body with undiminished hunger. “I love that you’re mine, Victoria.”

“And I love you.” I lean down to kiss him, feeling him already hardening against me. “Ready for round two already, Coach?”

“It’s Paris,” he says, flipping us suddenly so I’m beneath him again. “City of love. Seems wasteful not to make the most of it.”

As his mouth finds my neck, then moves lower to trail kisses across my collarbone and down to my breast, I arch into him, surrendering to the pleasure only he has ever given me.

In four days, we’d be back to the beautiful chaos of hockey drills, dance rehearsals, lost shin guards, and sticky peach jam fingerprints on the walls. But these stolen moments belong to us alone, to the foundation we’ve built that makes everything else possible.

And as Declan’s touch ignites me all over again, I know with absolute certainty that what we’ve found is truly rare. Not just passion that endures, but a partnership that strengthens with each passing year. A love story neither of us expected, yet one we continue to write together, day by day.

Some flames don’t burn out. They forge something stronger — a love tempered by time, laughter, and a thousand whispered promises.