She inhales sharply, and for the longest moment of my life, I worry she might push me off, but she melts against me, kissing me back, and in my chest, something locks into place.
CHAPTER 17
HAZEL
Rory Miller kisses me, and the world tilts below my feet. His stubble scrapes my skin, making my breath catch. Kissing him is so different from what I expected.
His mouth is a gentle press against mine, his exhale is soft against my skin, and his fingers trail across my jaw before sinking into my hair. His movements are slow, unhurried. I’d say he was reluctant if it weren’t for the way his tongue slips past my lips and lightly strokes me.
The breath whooshes out of my lungs, and I realize I’m gripping the front of his shirt in my fist. His fingers flex for a split second on the back of my hair, and he covers my hand on his chest, flattening it against him. Everything about him is warm, inviting, and comforting.
Nothing makes sense right now, but he smells so good—sandalwood and something clean, like body wash—and the sensation of his stubble brushing my chin is so enjoyable that I stop trying to figure this moment out. The way he smells pulls on a muscle low in my belly.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself against my lips before his tongue glides against mine.
He grips the back of my hair—still gentle, still careful—and pulls. Rory kisses me like he’s been thinking about this for a long time, and as sparks shoot over my skin at the feel of his hand in my hair, I make a quiet noise of pleasure against his lips.
He huffs. “Liked that, huh?”
His words rumble against my hand on his chest. I open my mouth to say something smart and sharp, but he strokes back inside, licking into me.
This isn’t just a kiss. My head spins with the pleasure of his lips against mine, the way he tastes, the way he feels and smells.
In some dark corner of my mind, I wonder if this is how he’d use his tongue between my legs. The muscles there clench, and I nip his bottom lip. Under my palm, his heart beats fast.
I pull back to look at him, and my stomach flutters as our eyes lock. He looks wildly handsome. It’s unfair how his blue eyes pop against the inky black and crisp white of his tux, and it’s unfair how he can look so boyishly handsome and yet powerful and masculine at the same time. His hair is in that perfectly messy, just-fucked style that he pulls off so well. The sides are cleaned up like he snuck out to get a haircut this afternoon, and my fingers itch to trace the short hairs, feel the tickle of them under my nails.
Someone clears their throat and I snap back to reality.
Pippa and Jamie stare at us with the same amused expression, and Connor is nowhere to be found. My face heats and I run a finger along my lip line to make sure nothing smeared. Beside me, Rory shifts, breathing hard. Our eyes meet and warmth pulses between my legs at the glazed look in his eyes. We both look away again.
“You look really nice,” he says, still not looking at me.
“Thanks.” I’m studying a spot on the other side of the room.
There’s a beat where we glance at each other again before looking away. He’s flushing, I think.
“I’m going to get us drinks,” he says, glancing at my dress again before walking away.
His sharp black tux is tailored to fit every inch of his lean, athletic frame. Watching Rory Miller walk away in a tux like that, with his broad shoulders and powerful yet graceful movements, is truly a gift. I’m not prepared for how hot he looks, and I know my gaze is lingering too long, but I can’t look away.
“Hmm.” Pippa’s smiling at me, and heat creeps up my neck.
“Don’t start.” I push my hair behind my shoulders, collecting myself.
Worry swirls through me and I bite my lip. We shouldn’t have done that. I liked it too much.
For days, I’ve replayed our argument, the crushing feeling in my chest as he basically told me I was broken and pathetic, and then his desperate, pained expression as he apologized.
He looked like he’d just die if I didn’t forgive him.
I’ve thought about him lacing up my skates. His gentle patience as he taught me to skate. On the ice, when he looked at my mouth with focus in his eyes, I thought maybe he’d try to kiss me, but he didn’t.
That dumb, adorable dragon sits on my dresser, staring back at me as I fall asleep each night.
I glance back at Rory. Our eyes meet, and I look away, taking in the room, the art on the walls, the plush leather furniture, the side tables with antique knickknacks. Near the bar, Ward stands among a group of players, a drink in one hand, listening as Alexei says something. Coaches are supposed to be old, red-faced, and angry, but Ward looks like James Bond in his tux, all handsome and quietly confident.