“Don’t kiss me,” she warns, as she has every morning since she got here. She has a strict rule about not kissing with morning breath, which I guess I’m down with. But I’m also too impatient to get up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then fuck her brains out. I’d rather kick off with the fucking.

There’s something different about this morning, though. It feels like more than fucking. Feels more intimate.

Maybe it’s because of the confession she made last night. Opening herself up to me, allowing me to experience, at least secondhand, the traumatic events she’d gone through. She’d been so vulnerable, and for a moment I’d almost felt inadequate. As if this glimpse into her soul that she was trusting me with was beyond what I was capable of taking on.

I’m seeing the same vulnerability in her eyes right now, and it’s making the sex feel—

Nope, it’s not our locked gazes heightening the intimacy. It’s the fact that my dick is surrounded with warmth and wetness.

I’m not wearing a condom.

“Babe.” I groan, stilling her by grabbing her hips. “Condom,” I remind her.

She looks stunned that we’d forgotten. And I know it’s a big deal for her, because she’s typically such a stickler for condoms. After her confession, I understand why.

“I’m on the pill,” she says in assurance, and her expression becomes unusually shy. “I get tested twice a year. My last results were all clear…” There’s an unspoken question there.

“Mine too,” I say huskily.

“So maybe we should…” She visibly swallows. “Keep going?”

My pulse quickens. “You sure you want to bareback it?”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. But maybe you can pull out at the end, if that’s okay?”

The fact that she’s even allowing me to be inside her this way is a beautiful gift. And my mother always told me to never look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Of course it’s okay.” I roll us over so that she’s lying beneath me, her dark hair fanned out across my pillow. Jesus, she’s beautiful.

And because I don’t know when or if the bareback gods might bless me again, I drag out the out-of-this-world sensations for as long as I can. I fuck her impossibly slow. My hips move in a lazy rhythm, and so does my tongue as I slide it between her parted lips. We kiss and fuck and fuck and kiss, for what seems like forever.

It almost becomes too much to bear. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, kissing her there. She squeezes my ass and rocks upward, meeting me thrust for thrust. By the time I finally increase the tempo, we’re both moaning with impatience.

“Dammit, Connelly, stop taking your sweet-ass time and move.”

I choke on my laughter. “Jeez. So bossy,” I chide.

“Move,” she growls.

I stop completely. “I’m not your sex toy, Jensen. I don’t fuck on command.”

“You’re such a baby. Are you going to get us off or not?”

I love that she says us and not me. Brenna isn’t selfish in bed. She doesn’t lie there like a starfish and make me do all the work like some women I’ve slept with in the past. Brenna is an equal participant, and I love it.

I gaze down at her with mock seriousness. “I’ll let your insolence slide. This time,” I warn. And then I pound into her until we’re both coming.

Afterward, we lie on our backs, naked, and I can tell without even looking at her that her mood has shifted. Tension rolls off of her. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I was thinking about my dad.”

“We just had sex and you’re thinking about your dad. Awesome.”

“We just had sex. Period. And now I’m thinking about my dad. Period. Those are two unrelated events,” she assures me.

“What’s troubling you?”

“I want to go home and talk to him about everything, but I’m worried because I have such bad luck initiating heart-to-hearts with him. He’s so hard to talk to.” Her sigh heats the air between us. “But I think it’s time to have a real conversation about everything I’ve been feeling. Maybe for once he’ll actually listen to me, you know? Maybe I’ll finally be able to get through to him and convince him I’m not the same person I was back then.”

I trail my fingers over her shoulder. “I have the utmost confidence you’ll make him see the light, Hottie.”

“That makes one of us, because I’m not confident in the slightest. Like I said, I have terrible luck when it comes to conversations with Chad Jensen.”

I purse my lips for a moment. “I have an idea.” Then I hop off the mattress and onto my feet.

“Where are you going?” she demands as I duck out of the room.

“Hold tight,” I call over my shoulder.

In the front hall, I throw open the closet door and drag out my hockey bag. I unzip it, ignore the rising smell of old socks, and rummage around until I find what I’m seeking. As I saunter back to my room, something nags at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite bring the thought to the forefront.

“I’m about to do you a huge solid,” I tell Brenna.

“Oh really.” She sits up, and my attention is instantly drawn to her bare breasts. They’re round and perky, and her nipples are puckered from being exposed.

I have to snap myself out of it before the lust takes over. “I’m going to lend you my good-luck charm,” I announce, holding up the tacky pink-and-purple bracelet.

She gasps. “Seriously?”

“Yup.”

“But how is your good-luck charm going to help me? Aren’t all the mojo and good vibes it holds associated with you?”

“That’s not how it works, babe.”

She seems to be fighting a smile. “Uh-huh, how does it work, then?”

“It’s a good-luck charm. It brings luck to whoever is wearing it, not just me. Jeez. Don’t you know anything about charms and superstitions?”

“No!” she replies. “I don’t.” Despite the humor in her tone, her eyes soften. “But I’m willing to give it a shot if you think it will help.”

“I don’t think, I know.”

I sit at the edge of the bed, naked as a jaybird. I take her hand and slip the beaded bracelet onto her delicate wrist. It sits a bit looser on her than it does on me, and when she lifts her arm to admire it, it slides halfway down to her elbow.

“There,” I say with a pleased nod. “You’re all set.”

“Thank you. I’ll probably head over there and talk to him while you’re at—” Her face suddenly pales.

Mine does too, panic careening up my throat. Shit. Shit. I glance at the alarm clock, which confirms my worst fear. It’s nine thirty, and I’m an hour late for practice.

Coach doesn’t let my tardiness go unpunished. After I’ve suited up in the empty locker room, I sprint down the tunnel—on skates—and practically hurl myself onto the ice. My teammates are running a shooting drill, but Coach blows his whistle when he spots me. He doesn’t even let the guys finish what they’re doing. He abandons them mid-drill and skates over to me.