Buy the Book: AmazonI'm in a prison of my own making.
I started building the walls at eight. That's when our coach teamed me with Sara. She was a pain in the neck.
But then she grew up and everything changed.
Now we've been partners for twenty years. We're the most decorated ice dancers in history. We have endorsement deals and we're days away from winning another gold medal.
The problem is, I'm in love with my partner. She’s my best friend, my confidant, my therapist, my masseuse, my everything.
I’m beyond ready to take our partnership off the ice. She's the only one who can release the shackles that are weighing me down.
Which is why as soon as we finish our short program in our last Olympic Games, I blurt out two words.
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Genre: contemporary romance, erotic romance
Release Date: March 12, 2019
Pages: 128
ASIN: B07PFYXZD7
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Excerpt
Chapter One
“Marry me.”
I can’t hold the words back as we finish one of the most amazing performances of our lives. My hold tightens for just a second, bringing Sara’s chest against mine. The music has faded. The crowd is going wild. I see pink bunnies and blue bears free-falling onto the ice around us among a cloud of red roses.
But my focus is on my partner of twenty years. Sara Moreau. Some call her the ice princess, but to me, she’s warm and funny, serious and a fierce competitor.
And I’m done denying how crazy I am for her.
Sara’s ice-blue eyes widen.
My lungs are starved of oxygen. I gave my all for our team program and now I’m holding my breath as I await the answer to my impromptu question.
I never should have asked her like this, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Our short program is one of our sexiest routines ever. She looks good enough to eat in the midnight blue one shoulder slip dress.
The thing looks like fine French lingerie and for the last two minutes and fifty seconds, I’ve had my hands all over her.
For the last several months, we’ve been prepping for the Olympics. Perfecting our twizzles and creating a routine that will win over the crowd and judges. But the entire time, my heart has been demanding that I make her mine. Once and for all.
Not a Show Romance. No performance. No more playing to the audience. No one seeing her gorgeous body but me.
For months, I’ve been uttering those two words over and over, if only in my mind.
Now they’ve slipped out, but I don’t want to pull them back. Despite the shock in her eyes, it’s almost a relief to have them between us.
I want people to stop asking us if we’re dating. I want to show them my ring on her finger and my baby in her belly.
“You’re asking me this now?”
I set her on her feet, and we take our bow.
I can almost read her mind. We’ve been together so long, I can count the number of days we haven’t seen each other.
We eat together; we train together, hell, sometimes we crash in the same bed. Over the years I’ve learned to look for the little flare of her nostrils that indicates her temper is rising.
Sara Moreau is a walking contradiction.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on with pale blond hair and lavender-blue eyes. Her creamy skin is the envy of women everywhere and more than one cosmetics company has come calling.
Though she looks like an angel, she moves like a vixen. There’s a fire inside that runs deep. More than once it’s erupted.
And as confident and passionate and put together as she is, she still has moments where she’s that insecure little girl who didn’t have enough to eat, riddled with doubt and anxiety.
Over the years I’ve been her friend, her confident, her therapist and her lover.
There’s one job title I’ve yet to claim in her life and by the twitch of her nose and the flare of her nostrils, I realize I might have more of a fight on my hands than I thought.
Believe it or not, I’m more of a romantic than she is. But her romantic streak is buried deep down.
So I’m not surprised when she takes my hand and we leave the ice together. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t say a word for the next five minutes. Though she smiles as we get our scores, I can tell that I’ve sent her into a spiral.
I’ll fix it. I always do.
There’s too much on the line to fail now.
It’s not until we’re in a quiet hall an hour later that I snag her hand and pull her around to face me.
Her eyes search my face, confusion and desire flashing in equal measure. I want to jerk her against me but now isn’t the place.
It’s weird to feel like I shouldn’t be touching her.
I touch her every day and I have for the better part of two decades. Every. Single. Day.
I know the curves of her body as well as I know my own. I know exactly how hard to press on the arch of her foot to make her eyes roll back in her head.
Her jaw drops just a fraction and her lips part.
I might be a gentleman on the ice, but off the ice, she makes me feel like a caveman. I should just throw her over my shoulder and get the hell out of here.
But I don’t.
“I don’t want an answer now,” I tell her. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you like that.”
“You didn’t ask me. It wasn’t a question, Trevor.” The lavender in her irises takes over, glittering through long black lashes.
There’s the passion I love so much.
“When I ask you, I’ll do it right. On one knee, with a ring.”
“You’re crazy.”
“About you, you bet your sweet ass I am.”
Her eyes go wide at my language.
I’m tired of playing nice with her.
I’m tired of pulling my punches when I’m in love with her and I want us to be together. I’m tired of acting like we’re friends, partners, nothing more off the ice. I’m sick to death of going on talk shows, radio programs, and meeting journalists for interviews, answering the same question we’ve gotten for the last twelve years.
“Are you and Sara dating?”
“You have so much chemistry on the ice!” They usually fan themselves.
“You’ve played out romances on the ice, are you two involved when you’re not wearing skates?”
For once, I’d love to look at the camera, lean into the microphone, and say “I’m crazy about this woman.”
I live to see the shocked looks on their faces.
But first, I’ve got to convince Sara that two decades of ice dancing need to become more.
I can’t take the tension anymore. I’m losing my focus because I’m too busy thinking about her, staring at her. All those little touches the public eats up, those aren’t for show.
She’s my other half. I thought I’d been proving it for years, but by the look in her eyes I’ve got a ways to go yet.
“Trevor...”
She drops her head and sighs.
“Come on,” I say, biding my time. “I’m thirsty.”
