When she turned to look at him, a shift occurred. He held his breath, recognizing the crumbling of a barrier between them; recognizing the naked emotion in her eyes as confirmation. Dylan leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her trembling lips. Then smiled.

“Let’s skate.”

They needed to hike through mounds of snow to get to the gallery where he housed the skates and equipment. She fell a few times, muttering under her breath about his crazy-ass ideas, and hung on to his hand as he dragged her through thigh-high powder. Dylan quickly fitted them with skates and led her onto the rink.

He tamped down the laughter for the first twenty minutes. Besides grabbing on to the rail and refusing to let go until she was ready, Riley frowned, muttered, and looked generally pissed off at his ability to skate perfect figure eights, backward and forward, while a few tentative tries landed her on that gorgeous backside.

Dylan enjoyed the transformation, though, when her usual stubbornness drove her forward into the middle of the ice in a sink-or-swim approach. Like most things the woman did in her life, she took the gamble.

And she swam.

He glided by her, grabbed her hand, and they hit stride. Watching fat chunks of snow surround them and ice sparkling added to the dreamy atmosphere. Dylan sunk into the moment, not needing conversation, just the presence of the woman he’d fallen in love with in an evening.

“My dad wanted a boy,” she said.

Dylan didn’t answer. A gut instinct told him to be quiet, because something bigger was happening underneath the surface and he didn’t want to jinx it. After a moment, Riley continued.

“When I was born, he was disappointed. Of course, I didn’t realize this until much later, after the tragedy. Sure, I knew he treated me with a distance, and seemed uninterested in anything purely female. But I had my mom, so that was okay. Dad’s world revolved around my brother. He was three years younger. His name was Rick.”

Dylan swallowed. He noted the terms she used, and knew the story was a rough one. But he kept skating, because he knew if he paused or said a word, she’d stop talking.

“I couldn’t be too jealous because I adored him, too. Dad was always pushing him, in sports, grades, social status. Had dreams of Rick doing something really successful, and always talked about him being the head of some super conglomerate or running his own company. Rick would roll his eyes and crack jokes—he had this great sense of humor that just made everyone love him. He made things easy for me. Mom rarely gave me crap, happy that I was happy, and Dad concentrated all his efforts on making sure Rick would excel at everything he did.”

Over the sound system, “Jingle Bells” turned to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” They did a few more laps and she was able to continue.

“Rick and my mother were killed in an auto accident. June 11, 1998. I was sixteen. He was thirteen. Guy fell asleep at the wheel and hit them head-on. No one survived.

“After that, it all changed. Dad walked around like a ghost. So did I. I felt so guilty. I was obsessed with my social status at school, crushing on this guy in my biology class, and hoping he’d ask me out. I felt so stupid, worried about ridiculous things when my brother had been working so hard to give Dad what he wanted. Excellence. Success.”

She lapsed into silence. “What did you do?” Dylan asked.

“I changed. I had to. I stopped worrying about friends and boys, and studied all the time. I decided to give Dad what we were all missing, and try to honor Rick’s memory. In a way, it wasn’t even hard. I learned to focus. I think I had the skills needed all the time, but I’d never been pushed before. I began enjoying the control and discipline it took to reach goals and depend on yourself. Much easier than maneuvering through social conventions, relationships, and teenage angst. Suddenly, my life was . . . cleaner.”

Dylan fought the need to take her in his arms and comfort her. All his questions about her drive and talent were answered. Of course she’d take her brother’s place. Of course she’d dedicate her life to making her father proud. It was probably always within her, but never had the opportunity to flourish with her brother being in the spotlight. His heart hurt for the family they were, the girl she’d once been, and the sacrifices she made. But he sensed she’d locked up this story for a long time, and it had festered, like an abscess. In order for her wound to heal, it needed to be lanced. Shared. Purged.

“Did your dad notice?”

A tiny sigh escaped her. “No. But I don’t blame him. I know he loves me. I know he’s proud of me and what I’ve accomplished with Chic Publishing. He framed the cover of Fortune magazine and hung it in the living room. But Rick and Mom left a hole that couldn’t be filled, no matter how good I was. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the way it should be.”

He stopped. Tipped her chin up. Tenderness coursed through his body, his heart, his soul. She blinked furiously, her face a picture of confusion and sadness and longing. “I bet your mom and brother look over you every day, so damn proud of who you’ve become. Others would have sunk and given up. Whined and bitched and given excuses. You’re a hell of a woman, Riley Fox. A hell of a daughter. And a hell of a sister.”

She nodded. Accepting his comfort. Listening to the words and taking them deep to find a place where they could fit. He broke then, needing to touch her, protect her, make her happy.

The kiss was pure giving and comfort, but she turned it fast, grabbing on to him as if needing more. Dylan groaned and held her tight, his tongue plunging into her mouth and savoring her taste. The spark caught and exploded. He pushed her against the railing, ripping at the bulky clothes loaded with zippers and buttons, desperate to hit skin and give her the connection they both needed. She whimpered, and he swallowed it whole, managing to get the jacket open, sweater hiked up, and his fingers down her pants.

Holy crap, she was dripping wet and hot as his fingers hooked under the panties and sunk deep into her pussy. She bit down hard on his lower lip, but he didn’t break contact, moving his fingers and dragging them across her clit, pushing her higher even as she bucked and bit and moaned underneath him.

“Give it to me, Riley. Now. Give it all to me,” he demanded, twisting his fingers and slamming deep against her G-spot. And then she was coming, flooding his hand, while his mouth crushed her screams, never releasing the pressure they both craved. He kept his fingers inside her for a while, kissing away the one tear skidding down her cheek, murmuring inane nonsense in her ear while she settled. He kissed her, held her, and she relaxed completely in his arms.

“I need you,” he said. “In my bed. Naked. Open.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I need that, too.”

Dylan tried not to shake as he fixed her clothes, took her hand, and led her out of the rink.

* * *

He moved over her, surged inside, and began the rhythm to break her apart so he could put her back together. Riley lived her life on her terms, but tonight there was nothing she couldn’t give him. A distant fantasy and memory of a man whose image never left her now claimed her completely. She knew it wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. But for these last few hours, Riley didn’t care.

She opened herself wide and met each thrust. Her lips opened to his tongue, her nails scraped down the muscled ridge of his back, drawing blood, making her own mark so tonight could be remembered. When her climax came, he commanded her to open her eyes. He was witness to it all—both brutal pleasure and the completion of the fall she’d started ten years ago at the first touch of his lips on hers.

She fell in love with Dylan McCray. Owned it. Relished it. Reveled in it.

She called his name over and over while her heart screamed out the words she refused to utter.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

* * *

The mingling scent of sex and musk and sweat rose to his nostrils in the sweetest perfume in the world. Dylan stroked her shoulder as she rested, staring at the woman naked in his arms, in his bed. How many times had he wondered what it would be like if they met again, yet recognizing they may never be able to transition the connection between them into the real world.

When he joined Kinnections, he’d been so hopeful. He was ready to settle down and find his forever. The team was incredible, noting every one of his points, and even digging under the surface until they found needs he didn’t realize he had. Most of his dates impressed him. Made him laugh. Engaged him in stimulating conversation. Many even caused a physical reaction that would’ve led directly to sex, or at least a lot of foreplay.

Usually after the first date, he realized the truth.

None of the women were meant for him.

Frustration beat in his blood, and he had trouble convincing Kate he wasn’t screwing around, wasting their time. How do you explain the search for something that many didn’t believe existed? The magic of a connection, a deeper knowledge you met the one meant for only you? Especially coming from a male, he’d be laughed out of Kinnections and by anyone who heard the ridiculous story. So, he made half-assed excuses and kept his mouth shut.

About a year ago, Dylan began to believe that kind of relationship didn’t exist. The depression he felt realizing he’d have to settle haunted him, but he promised to give the search a bit more time before he accepted the fact he’d never have what his parents have. How could he even understand what he was looking for when he’d never experienced it personally?