49. Renee

I’m still brooding on the idea of introducing some separation between me and Weston—like by, for example, moving out of Sutton’s place and getting an apartment of my own—and this definitely-not-a-relationship we have forming between us, when I get back to The Palais.

But when he comes to the door, knocks and asks me if I want to take a ride with him, how am I supposed to say no to that?

Especially not when he’s grinning like that (panty-melting).

And smelling like that (drool-inducing).

And looking like that (slim-fitting white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, my Achilles’ heel).

Yeah… saying “no” was never an option.

“Where are we going?” I ask, reminding myself internally not to lick my lips at the sight of him.

He just winks. “You’ll see. No more questions.”

Which is why I’m frowning when we pull up at the stadium. The place is lit up like it’s gametime, but the team is off tonight and the whole parking lot is empty except for us.

“What are we doing here?” I look at him, but he’s whistling merrily as he shuts the car off and saunters around to open my door for me.

“Didn’t I say, ‘No more questions’?”

“I’m not a very good listener,” I grumble.

He chuckles. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Helping me out, he adds, “Anyway, it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” I shake my head. “I hate surprises.”

“This one isn’t bad. No scary clowns jumping out at you, no falling pot of slime, no interventions for your raging habit.”

I wrinkle up my nose. “What habit?”

“You’re addicted to me, remember?”

I’m rolling my eyes as he laughs and loops an arm around my shoulders to pull me closer into that aphrodisiacal cloud of cologne he’s wearing. “Gag,” I inform him. “I am actively gagging.”

“You won’t be in a minute. It’s a good surprise, I promise. You can trust me.”

Those four little words kill my smile instantly. You can trust me? History says otherwise. Not because of Weston per se, but because of those of his gender who have dared utter the words then did everything possible to render said words meaningless.

No member of the male species has ever said, You can trust me, and then gone on to do something trustworthy.

But with a sigh, I let him drag me into the mouth of the stadium. Once more into the breach, dear friends, or whatever.

It’s eerie—when we walk inside, there’s no crowd, no deafening organ player, no sticks smacking against ice like thunder. Just the sound of my footsteps and Weston’s echoing down the tunnel.

When we emerge from the tunnel, I see a spotlight shining on the end of the bench. It’s highlighting two pairs of skates. One I recognize as his. The other is a suede tan pair, a little smaller, obviously intended for a female. And since I’m the only female in the vicinity…

“Is this the part where you explain what’s happening?”

“You’re going to learn to skate.”

My cheeks go instantly red. I’d confessed to him once that I didn’t know how. I wasn’t coordinated enough, didn’t have good balance. He fought me on it, then shrugged and gave up when I pushed back. Although I’m seeing now that he didn’t actually give up on anything; he just filed it away for future use.

I should’ve known.

I glance at him. “No, I’m not.”

“Sure you are.” He kisses me soft and slow, one of those sensual preludes to the sex we should be having right now instead of standing in a cold ice rink arguing about skating.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I like my ass the way it is. Smooth. Unbruised.”

He grins and pulls me against him, cupping my butt in his palm. “Believe me, P, I like it, too. You really think I would ever do anything to hurt this finely crafted piece of artwork?”

He’s so full of shit. I bite back a giggle. “Then why do you want me to risk injuring it just so I can do something I have never in my life wanted to try?”

But even as I’m grousing, he’s smiling. We both know I’m going to cave, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a fight before then.

He glances at me, bats those big baby blues, and smiles. “Come on, sweetheart. You know as well as I do that you’re going out there with me. And you’re going to love it.”

“I will most certainly not love it.”

“But you’ll do it because you don’t back away from a challenge.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “But if I fall, you have to kiss it better.”

“Deal. Hell, I might even push you down just to make that happen.”

I laugh because he really is charming when he wants to be. Sometimes, I forget how he was when we met. The Weston here with me now is night and day from the one who sneered down at the carnage of RENEE’S BOX O’ GRANNY PANTIES and accused me of being a shameless groupie.

“Sit down, gorgeous.” He nods to the bench. “Let me show you how much fun skating can be.”

Sighing, I do as he asks. He kneels down in front of me and runs his hand up my legging-clad calf. Shivers erupt in the trail of his fingertips. He unties my shoes and slips them off. His hands are tender, delicate, reverential. The spotlight casts half his face in gold and the other in shadow.

He’s beautiful, he really is. I just can’t quite convince myself that this is anything other than a wild dream.

Prying open the tongue of the first skate, he holds it out for me to put my foot into. “This is such a bad idea,” I mutter.

But I could get used to him cradling my leg on his lap while he laces up the skate, ties it, and repeats the entire process on the other foot.

He cups my ankle gently. “I won’t let you fall.”

That’s another one of those things men say and never mean.

But what if he means it? protests the most naive of the voices in my head. What if he’s different from the rest of them?

“Gravity is probably going to have more to say about that than you will.”

“Gravity will stay out of our way if it knows what’s good for it.” Rising to his feet, he offers me a hand to help me test out my balance. I get up on wobbly Bambi legs, clinging to him for dear life. But when I manage to make it a few seconds without immediately eating shit, I risk looking at him and smiling.

He returns the smile twice as bright. “See? You’re standing. There’s nothing to it.” He says it so proudly, like I’m already doing triple axels.

He shucks his skates on real quick, then steps out onto the ice and holds a hand in my direction again.

“Trust me,” he says as he glides backward, leaving the pool of light and slipping into the shadows. His grin is the last thing to go. “Trust me.”

But I linger for a second at the threshold.

I look around at the stands and wonder what it must be like for him in here during a game. On game nights, this place still looks huge, but it’s loud, too.

Tonight, though, all I can hear is the slice of my skates on the ice and my own frantic breathing.

“How did you arrange this?” I grab his outstretched hands and put one terrified foot on the ice, then the other. “All this, I mean. The stadium and the lights and all.”

He pulls me with him. “I know a guy who plays for the team,” he teases. “Great-looking dude. Wicked sense of humor. Huge, throbbing?—”

“I get it,” I interrupt. “Hilarious.”

We float around the ice for a little bit. I’m still clinging to his hands hard enough to cut off circulation, but if he minds, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds me tight and keeps me upright as we make huge, lazy circles on the glistening surface. The beams of light overhead rotate slowly and randomly, dappling us here and there. It’s beautiful and crisp in a way I hadn’t expected it to be. The total absence of friction beneath my feet makes me feel like I’m flying, in the strangest way.

And Weston grins at me the whole time.

After I’m starting to get the hang of it a bit, he slows down and lets me drift into his arms. One arm encircles me as the other hand brushes fallen hair from my face. He steals a soft kiss from my lips and takes my breath with it just for good measure.

“Oh my,” is all I can say when we part. “What did I do to deserve that?”

He rakes his own hair off his forehead. “Sometimes, a guy just needs a kiss.”

Then he backs off and we’re skating again. Slower now, almost sensual. I’m caught in the moment. Hanging onto it because it feels… right.

Terrifying, but right.

I need to distract myself from the fear boiling in my gut. It’s less fear of skating now and more fear of what would happen if I let myself truly fall for Weston Scott.

Do not dare think about that, you crazy bitch. Eject from that line of thinking immediately. Change the subject, NOW.

“Did you always know you were gonna play hockey?” I blurt.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I was shit at school, shit at every part-time job I ever worked. Hockey was home.” He smiles fondly. “I grew up with Hunter and my earliest memory is him, me, and my dad on the ice, and Dad was teaching us how to skate.”

It makes me smile to picture that floppy-haired duo with an older version of Weston coaching them through their own first steps on the ice. I can imagine Weston charging out, falling, and popping right back up again and again. Learning through stubbornness and skinned knees. Teeth gritted, fists clenched.

And that older version of him, his dad, smiling this exact same smile all the while.

“Was your dad a hockey player?”

“Yeah. My dad loved the game. Passed that love onto me and Hunt. He went to all the games. Rode us when we played like ass, praised us when it went well. Win or lose, though, he always made sure we knew he was proud of us.” His smile strains and falters. “The only two times I ever wanted to quit was when he died and when Hunter got hurt.”

I don’t have words, so I keep my yap shut.

“I play now for them. To honor them.”

I try not to think about how horrible it must have been to lose his dad. I can’t imagine the pain. “I’m so sorry, Weston,” I murmur. “I bet he’d be proud of you, though. I am.”

He looks at me with his head tilted to the side as we finish a circuit of the ice and end up back by the bench. “I hope so,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it. “Lately, I think he’d be most proud of me for finding you.”

Then, before I can even begin to figure out what the hell to do with that doozy of a bombshell, I’m somehow back in his arms, and he’s kissing me again, and the rest of the world might as well not even exist.

I’m wearing leggings, a turtleneck, and a jacket because he told me to bundle up—and none of it matters because I can feel every inch of my body against his.

His tongue swipes the inside of my mouth as he holds me in place with an arm around my waist and one tangled in my hair. He’s hot and solid beneath my hands and that smell is making my head swim.

He spins me so I’m facing the bench and the seats behind it. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I saw you, you know.”

He slowly, slowly, slowly drags my leggings and panties down and then bends me over the boards. The first kiss of cold air between my legs makes me hiss, but then his warm palm smooths out the goosebumps and the hiss becomes a moan. “Weston…”

He drags a thumb across my lips to silence me. “I want to fuck you in front of the entire arena. The whole damn world, actually.”

I hear the fumbling of his belt and zipper behind me. Then I feel his cock tracing up the inner curve of my thigh.

“I want to show everyone whose girl you really are. I want to show them you’re mine.”

On the last word, he slides into me. I jerk forward into the bench, white-knuckling the boards, while a soundless gasp whooshes from my lips.

“You want me to fuck you while the whole arena watches?”

“I—Oh.” His body slams into mine.

“Answer me, Renee. I want to hear you say it.”

“Y-yes…” I can barely get the word past my throat but he growls and my body tightens. The thought of all those people seeing how much he wants me, how desperate he is to have me, sends my body into a spiral.

His thrusts pick up speed. His hands are digging into my hips and my ribs are digging into the boards, but I don’t give a damn about either. In fact, I want to be marked, so that hours from now, I can look in the mirror and see the evidence that I’m his and he’s mine.

“You’re mine, Renee. You’re mine. You’re mine.”

One more thrust and I splinter apart.

The ice might be cold, the air might be chilled, but my body is on fire as I come hard with him buried inside of me. Weston is one second on my heels. I feel him stutter and clench and then he’s pouring himself into me in one long, extended, shuddering gasp.

When he finally moves away from me, I pull my leggings back up. I feel light as a feather now. I’m almost positive that I could go do backflips and quadruple spins on the ice if I wanted to.

Instead, I let him guide me back to the bench. “Best skate ever,” he pronounces when he comes to stand in front of me.

“Yeah? You think I have it mastered?” I grin down at him as he unlaces the skates and pries them off of me.

He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around my waist. “Princess, if you get any better at it, we might have to put you on the team.”