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.
Rory returns with a drink for me, and I sip it, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“I’m glad you came,” he murmurs, and his mouth brushes my ear before he presses a quick kiss to my temple.
A shiver rolls down my back. He’s getting more bold with this fake relationship charade, and I wish I could say I’m annoyed by it but… I’m not.
My smile is a bit shy. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Well, after the other day…” He glances back to me, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got you something. To say sorry.”
“You already said sorry.”
“I know.” A slight frown creases his forehead as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. “I wanted to show you I meant it.”
He’s wearing that same earnest expression he wore at the rink, like he’s in physical pain. A lock of hair has fallen onto his forehead and my gaze lingers on it.
“Open it,” he says, tilting his chin at the envelope now in my hand.
I slide out an email confirmation. It’s for a weekend at a nearby vacation destination, Harrison Hot Springs—the luxury suite at a really nice hotel and two full days at the spa.
“It’s for you and Pippa,” he says quickly. “You can go whenever you want.” He gives me a tight, vulnerable smile that makes my heart ache. “You said spending time with Pippa made you feel worthy.”
In my head, the glowing sign that says Rory Miller is an evil, selfish hockey player flickers, losing power.
“You’re supposed to be an asshole.” I keep my tone light and humorous as I stare at the paper, and he huffs a quiet laugh.
That was the guy I signed up for when we agreed to this. Not this Rory.
Not the sweet, earnest, honest guy who apologizes like he means it.
I’m starting to think I was wrong. Maybe I don’t know Rory Miller at
all.
“I wasn’t pretending,” Rory says quietly, eyes on me.
About… the kiss? I search his deep blue gaze, blue like my dress, and
there isn’t enough air in here.
“About the dress.” Rory’s mouth tips into an affectionate smile. “You look beautiful.”
Warm, liquid feelings gather inside me, swirling and looping.
“The dress cost more than what I make in a month,” I admit, laughing a little.
“How many times do I need to say it?” His voice is low and soft as he smiles down at me, gaze lingering on my hair, my dress, with his trademark cocky, knowing grin. “I’m going to spend money on you.”
Longing aches in my chest. It’s not the money; it’s the gesture. I’ve always been independent and stubborn. No one takes care of me.
I like it. Rory’s smiling down at me like I’m precious to him, and the way he kissed me, hungry and needy and desperate like he couldn’t wait a second longer?
I liked all of that, too.
Worry pulls tight in my chest. We’ve got until January first, and then this is all over, so I’m not going to get used to it.
“Besides,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets, “I’m not talking about the dress. I’m talking about you. You’re stunning.”
“Thank you.” My heart gives a heavy thud against the front wall of my ribcage. No one’s ever called me beautiful like that, so earnestly. “For everything. For the dress, for this.” I hold up the envelope. “I’m starting to think you’re secretly nice.”
He smiles at me, and yeah, I’m fucked, because there’s a weird, intense feeling around my heart that I’ve never felt before.
A glass-tinkling noise rings out and Ward waits as the conversation dies down.
“You have the luckiest sex doll in the world,” I whisper to Rory, smiling, and he shakes with laughter.
