My fingers circle a button on his shirt, less innocent than their absent trail a moment ago. I watch them with a steadily increasing pulse, wondering if they’ll be brave. Oliver adjusts slightly, his gaze still locked on me, as if asking the same question. Does he want me to be brave? I want it. To touch him. Badly. His warm skin against my palm, sculpted muscle hardening in my grip. He’d be magnificent to experience.
My teeth sink into my lower lip as my path around the button intensifies. He doesn’t move, waiting. He must know what I want and he’s not stopping me this time. I let my gaze slide over his form stretched out on my bed. Even fully clothed, he’s a masterpiece. I slip open the button.
His chest lifts in a hoarded breath as I slide my fingers into the opening of his shirt. My palm runs over his skin, and my own nipples harden when I graze his. I skim across his left pectoral, down his side until the frustrating pull of fabric stops my progress. My breathing deepens as I unhook another button, and another, and another, until his shirt is only connected by a couple lone holdouts at the bottom. I’ve never had the urge to tear fabric before. Not like now. My hungry gaze studies the newly exposed work of art beneath my fingertips. His gorgeous heart seems to glow through his skin, brightening the tattoo above it. I run my finger over the intricate design, wondering, but too afraid to break the moment with words.
Brother. Friend. The sad, lonely tree.
My gaze tracks up to his eyes, and I almost flinch at the heat there. Passion I’ve seen before, but never unchecked like it is now. Passion I could have if I want it, and I want it so much it hurts.
I straighten enough to pull my top over my head, loving the way his eyes devour me. In this moment, I feel like more than enough. Like I’m everything to him, the gem he sees in the mirror. I lean forward and test his lips with my finger, soft and full, but most importantly, willing this time. The fire inside burns hotter.
His eyes still hold mine, curious and heated. Even as his body betrays him, he holds back, restraining his desire—his power—for me to direct. I see it in the expansion of his biceps with the clench of his fists, the contraction of his sculpted abs as he controls each breath. He’s a man with exquisite self-control and poise. I imagine him on the ice, staring down opponents with violent precision. He’s a predator trained as prey, and in that moment, I understand why he’s an elite goalie—and the tempering effect of sisters he adores. Yes, Oliver Levesque is an enigma, a complex blend of power and grace, brutality and softness, and right now in the chaos of my storm, my desire for him is the only certain thing in my life.
I lean down and brush his lips with mine, loving how it only sparks a more dangerous explosion. Because soon my hands are in his hair, my leg sliding over his body to straddle him for better access. He meets my kiss with a demanding response, lifting into it until that’s not enough either. His fingers shove into my hair as well, molding me to him as his tongue challenges mine and takes control of the kiss. I groan into it, involuntarily, like everything else that suddenly happens to my typically controlled instincts. Stiff limbs become loose and primed to seek his body. Hips accustomed to trained movements, now sway in improvised choreography against his. One hand locks in his hair, tugging until he flinches. The other scales his chest and arm until the fabric gets in the way again.
I straighten and rock back on his hips to finish unbuttoning his shirt. Once freed, he rips it off his arms and tosses it to the floor. I work at the button of his jeans, deciding those need to come off too. Gosh, I want everything off. I don’t want anything separating us anymore. I unhook my own zipper and add my jeans to the growing pile on the floor. I turn back to him and catch my breath.
His hair, messy from where I teased it, drifts over warm brown eyes laced with affection and desire. I already knew his body was stunning, but seeing him like this, in my bed, fully exposed and waiting for me is almost too much to accept. The fact that his gaze scours my own with unchecked hunger sends my pulse into dangerous rhythms that trigger more aching surges. I find his lips again, melting into his kisses until I can’t breathe. With a groan, he rolls us so he’s braced over me, and my hips instinctively lift to seek his.
“Oliver,” I whisper through a moan.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice gravelly and strained.
“I want you.”
I feel like a poet with the way my simple statement makes his beautiful eyes shine. Like he’d been waiting for those words.
“I want you too,” he says, searching my gaze before leaning
