Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
The words are right there, forming in my head like a reasonable adult conversation. But then she shifts against me, her body soft and warm and perfect, and instead I hear myself whispering, “I want to take you upstairs.”
And it’s like a repeat of our first time, but without the thunderstorm. We barely make it into the room before the clothes start flying off.
Here I’m on solid ground. It’s only been a few days, but I already know what makes her tick. I know the little gasp she makes when I trace the freckles on her shoulders and how she gets bossy when she wants something—tugging my hands exactly where she needs them, directing me with soft commands that make my pulse race.
I know she feels like silk and moves like she was made specifically to drive me out of my mind.
This time, I force myself to slow down. Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s the way she looks at me in the moonlight streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows, but everything feels heightened. More real. When she whispers my name against my throat, it sounds less like performance and more like prayer.
“Come here,” I say needlessly, as we strain against each other. “I’m going to give it to you so good.”
If you’ll let me.
And then suddenly it’s official—we’ve survived the entire Wedding Experience. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m shaking Darcy’s father’s hand one last time as he promises to stay in touch about his sponsorship idea. And I’m lifting Darcy’s suitcases into the trunk of the car, and closing it with a quiet, confident click that betrays its German engineering.
Darcy is waiting in the car, her seat belt buckled.
“We did it,” she says as I climb into the driver’s seat. “No panic attacks. No more migraines. I didn’t bitch-slap my sister this morning, even when she said my shoes were ‘a brave choice.’”
“Job well done,” I agree. Surviving this wedding was the whole goal.
Well, right up until it wasn’t anymore. I don’t actually want to go back to the city right now. I want another day in the sunshine with Darcy.
And another slow dance to “Speechless” or to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”
And another round of slow, passionate lovemaking on that king-sized bed with the windows open to the ocean breeze.
My mood tanks a little for each mile we travel away from the shore. There’s traffic on 84 as we cross into Connecticut. And then it gets even worse as we leave Connecticut for New York. The potholes deepen, and the sky gets hazier, and I hate it here. We’ll be home in a half hour, and I can feel the weekend slipping away with every mile marker we pass.
I glance over at Darcy, who’s staring out the passenger window. Her thoughtful expression is so familiar now that I feel it like an ache. And I’m hit with the sudden, desperate realization that I need to speak up right now if I don’t want this to end.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m taking a trip to train in Colorado. I leave next week.”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “So when am I going to see you again?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and Darcy’s expression becomes carefully neutral. “At work, Eric. Preseason training will start before you know it.”
“But… that’s it?” The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to dial back my tone and rein in the desperation. Nobody likes desperation. “I don’t leave until Friday, though. You could come over for a homemade dinner.”
“Homemade by Marnie?” she asks tightly.
“Well, yeah.” Of course Darcy knows all about the personal chef my friends and I all worship. “I can’t seduce you on my own cooking. But I’ll make coffee in the morning all by myself.”
She turns to the window again, and my heart drops. “Eric, that’s not a great idea.”
“I think it is.” I’m fighting to keep my tone casual, but this conversation isn’t going the way I hoped.
“We said a weekend fling, Eric. The weekend is over.”
“But…” My mind spins, looking for loopholes. Technically, the weekend lasts another few hours. And hasn’t Darcy noticed how good we are together? The fun we’ve had? The incredible sex?
Am I losing my touch?
“What about a summer fling?” I try again. “The weekend fling went pretty well.” Didn’t it? “And summer isn’t over.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
Okay, ouch. “I just don’t understand why not.” The frustration bleeds through now, and I see her stiffen slightly.
“Because we work together. It’s important for me to keep my work life separate from my private life.”
“I realize that,” I say carefully.
“Do you?” she squeaks. “Because there’s nothing private about our workplace or your life. Even your condo shares a hallway with two of your teammates.”
She’s not wrong. Privacy is hard to come by when you live in the NHL fishbowl. There’s got to be a way around it, though. “The thing is…” I could rent another place! I open my mouth to suggest that but then shut it before I sound like a madman.