Page 34 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)

THIRTY-TWO

We’re still catching our breath, Dom crushing me under his weight on the counter, when my brain finally starts to come back online and process what we just did.

Regrets? No, never.

Feeling more than I probably should after a hookup? Maybe.

Then again, my experience with hook-ups is limited.

Not in numbers; I’m still a virgin—far from a blushing one, though.

I’ve never been shy about seeking pleasure, but it all felt interchangeable.

No one special, nothing too serious. Every relationship hits a point where giving more isn’t worth the risk of losing.

That urge to run is still there with Dom… but so is the tug to hold on. One I’m not sure I’ve felt before.

But that’s fine. All feelings pass.

“You okay?” Dom mumbles into my neck.

Damn him and his infuriating ability to read me.

Either that, or my body is tensing up now that the orgasm high is fading.

Shit. I’ve also stopped the slow drag of my fingers through his hair and down his back.

“Good.”

He lifts his head, easing some of his weight off me and propping himself up on one elbow. His finger nudges my chin until I’m looking at him.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a shit liar?”

He’s wrong about that. I’ve actually been told I’m a great liar. Or at least emotionally distant and hard to read. Which is basically the same thing.

It’s just him. He’s the only one who seems to have X-ray vision when it comes to me.

“Actually, no.”

He huffs a laugh. “Of course not, la mia fiamma .”

I was starting to think he forgot about that nickname. I’d never admit it, but I’m kind of glad he didn’t.

He steps back and pulls me with him. Then grabs a towel, wets it and walks back over, completely unbothered by the fact that his softening dick is still just out.

Which, for the record, is still pretty. Even flaccid.

He wipes me up gently, then adjusts my panties, pulls up the neckline of my dress, and smooths the skirt.

Only once I’m put back together does he finally tuck himself away.

Then his hands find my waist, steadying me as he helps me off the counter.

“I should probably—” I gesture toward the back door with my thumb. “Ryan’s expecting me.”

He catches the hand still dangling at my side. “I thought we were going to talk.” His voice is soft. Patient.

I take a long inhale. And an even longer exhale.

He chuckles.

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Afraid so.” He smiles like I’m cute instead of a complete pain in the ass.

“All right.” I cross one arm under my chest, but he keeps hold of the other, tugging me gently through the kitchen and dining room, into the living room.

In front of the couch, he sits, and I plop. Which is maybe the wrong approach because this couch has zero give and I basically bounce.

“You weren’t kidding about needing new decor. This couch is not comfortable.”

“I know.” He leans into his corner, putting some space between us but keeping his eyes locked on me.

“So.” I clear my throat. “What did you want to talk about?”

I tug the hem of my dress again, even though it’s already back in place.

His brow lifts slightly. “You know what.”

I shrug. “You want a post-game analysis? Should I have been more vocal? Thrown in a few compliments?”

“Mia.”

There’s something in the way he says my name that makes it hard to keep the joke going. Not scolding. Just… searching.

“That didn’t feel casual to me,” he states. “And I don’t think it did to you either.”

I exhale slowly. “You’re just saying that because your brain’s still full of post-orgasm chemicals. Trust me, in an hour you’ll be thinking clearly again.”

“I’m not.” He leans forward. “I meant what I said. I want more with you. If you recall, I said that before.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable in the way only honesty can be.

I look away first. Because, of course, I do.

“You don’t really know me. Outside of this show.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, no real humor in it.

“I know you like overly sugary coffee, but the beans have to be high quality. I know you’re unreasonably cold in the mornings.

I know you deflect with humor and sass. I know you’re scared—more than you’re willing to admit—and that every time I get too close, you push a little harder to keep me at arm’s length. ”

God. I want to argue. Deny every word. But he’s not wrong.

“Don’t you know what they say about assumptions?”

“Mia.” This time, the two syllables are soft. Rounded. “I’m not asking you to say anything back. I just needed to be honest about how I feel.”

My heart is beating too fast. Too loud. I cross my arms like that might pin it in place.

“I didn’t plan on any of this,” I admit.

Dom nods, the motion slow, like it’s nothing he didn’t already know.

When he doesn’t fill the silence slowly clogging the air, I add, “So, what now?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You said you’d compromise.”

I shift to face him fully, tucking my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “Okay, so what are you proposing?”

“That you try.”

My brows pull together. “I told you I would try to compromise. What is it you’re suggesting?”

“You try .”

My eyes narrow. “Are we reverting to repeating each other and misunderstanding? I thought we were past that.”

He hooks his hands behind my knees and tugs me toward him. “You try to date me. As if that’s what you came here for.”

My lips pull into a frown before I can stop them. A flash of panic skitters beneath my ribs.

“Can’t we just be friends who sometimes give each other orgasms?”

His mouth twitches— barely —but his voice stays even. “You said you’d compromise.”

I pull my knees in closer but don’t shy away from his touch. His hands skim over my legs, massaging my calves.

He waits me out while I consider my options.

I’ve already established that staying away from him is impossible. Even more so after what just happened on the kitchen island. I may be comparatively inexperienced, but I know enough to know I want more of that .

And I did tell him my new motto about hope and disappointment.

Would it really be so bad?

I guess there’s only one way to find out.

And he did say try.

It’s like a test drive. I don’t have to buy the car and bring it home.

This will be fine.

When I meet his gaze again, he’s already looking at me, his lips tipped into a lazy, lopsided smile.

“What’s running through that pretty little head of yours?”

I scoff. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

He shrugs. “What’ll it be, baby?”

Why does every feminist bone leave my body when he calls me that? I refuse to get used to it.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yep. We’ll try dating. I just want to state for the record—you asked for this.”

“I would’ve begged,” he cajoles, and I roll my eyes.

His hands drop to my ankles. “Will you stay the night?”

“I can’t?—”

“Who knows when we’ll get the chance again,” he argues gently. “I just want to hold you.”

He might actually be better at getting what he wants than I am. He’s very hard to say no to.

I abandon my protective posture and crawl into his lap, because we’re dating now. It’s allowed. Expected, even.

His eyes widen for a second before they darken with heat.

“Okay, but I’m not a cuddler,” I warn.

“No cuddling, then.”

Before he can negotiate any more terms, I kiss him.

“There. Now it’s sealed with a kiss.”