Ugly Sweater Weather

On top of him; I wouldn't exactly mind that.

Oh, my God. Yes, I would. What was wrong with me? I needed to go get my hormone levels checked or something because, clearly, something was off here. I'd always had what I considered a normal sex drive, but this was getting over the top. Every time he said something anyone could even remotely construe as sexual, I felt all heated. The only problem was, I used his family's practice as my gyno. And, what, was I going to walk past his mom and say, "Hey, yeah, I'm here because I am all hot and bothered over your son, so, clearly, something is wrong with me."

I mean, I hadn't actually met his mom. She worked on the third floor, for the pregnant ladies. Her husband worked on the second, for the ladies who wanted to get pregnant. And I went to the first floor, for ladies who just wanted to make sure all their bits and bobs were working properly.

But still.

"Dea?" Crosby asked, brows pinched.

"What? Oh, ah, I'm just having vivid imaginings of us falling, and one of these skates cutting a major artery," I told him, even though that was only partially true.

"Alright. Come on, scaredy cat," he said, pulling the trainer away, and reaching for my hand.

Even through the gloves, I felt like I could feel his body heat, something that proved a little too distracting as I tried to move and nearly pitched forward.

"This isn't going to work," I decided, trying to reach again for the trainer.

"Here," Crosby said, blocking my way. "Let's try this instead," he suggested, carefully releasing my hand to grab it with his other hand, pulling my arm across his chest, as his other arm slid across my hips, wrapping slightly over my belly.

And we were close, so freaking close.

"Alright, now like we are doing a three-legged race, okay?" he asked, giving me an encouraging nod.

"Clearly, you were never my partner at Fun Day at school. Because we did not make it to the finish line of the three-legged race. But I have to appreciate your optimism," I told him, impressed that my voice came out even when I felt so breathless.

"I have every faith in you, Dea," he assured me, nudging my hip to get me going. "Okay, I take it back," he said two minutes later when I nearly took us both down three times.

"This is not as magical as I was hoping," I admitted, grumbling as little kids zoomed past us and turned in circles, giggling, like this was the easiest thing in the world.

"You're overthinking it too much. Remember when we were watching that dance competition show and you kept yelling at the girl to stop trying to lead during the ballroom dancing?"

"Yeah."

"Loosen up and let me lead you," he suggested, arm tightening around me, reassuring me. "You can trust me, Dea," he said, voice low, soft. And it did that shiver thing to my insides again.

I could trust him.

I trusted him more than anyone else in my life.

With my secrets, with my hopes and dreams, with my safety when we were out late at night.

So, what was trusting him with guiding me on the ice?

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, then slowly letting it out.

As soon as I was done, Crosby urged us forward, gliding over the ice like I wasn't a stumbling toddler.

And I could suddenly see why people enjoyed ice skating. There was that freeing sensation in your chest and belly like you got when you were on a swing, that happy, light, airless sensation.

"Take another breath," Crosby instructed a moment later, and as soon as I started to, he whirled us in a circle, making a strange squealing laugh escape me as the tree above me flashed across my vision.

"See?" he said, beaming down at me for a second. "Told you that you could trust me."

I don't know what happened then.

I guess I got distracted looking over at him.

And I just lost my footing.

But because he was distracted for a second as well, he wasn't as stable when I started to pitch forward toward the ice, my stomach dropping, my voice gasping out of me.

Inwardly, I prepared myself for the seemingly inevitable fall.

But just before I truly pitched downward, Crosby's arms were yanking me roughly up, and twisting, then pushing me back, slamming me up against the wall of the rink. His front pressed to my front as his hands grabbed at the top of the wall at either side of my hips to keep us both in place as he tried to find his equilibrium again.

Chest pressed to mine, I could feel his labored breathing matching mine, and I couldn't help but wonder if his breathlessness had less to do with the almost-fall and the save, and more to do with our proximity, with the fact that our faces were inches away from each other, that he was trapping me against the wall in a surprisingly delicious alpha move.