The Night Before New York

An exclusive bonus chapter from Back to Center Ice by Aurora North

Set between Chapters 22 and 23 — Alex’s POV

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely graphic explicit sexual content including oral sex, penetrative sex, strap-on use (both partners), marking/biting, and detailed sexual descriptions. This is the uncut version — hotter than anything in the published novel. For readers 18+ only.

The suitcase was open on the bed like a wound, and Alex was trying to decide between two blazers, which was the kind of problem she’d never had in Birch Lake and which reminded her, every time she packed for New York, that she was living two lives now—one measured in ice temperatures and donut orders, the other in studio lights and segment timing.

“The navy,” Em said, from the doorway.

Alex looked up. Em was leaning against the frame in pajama pants and Alex’s Montreal hoodie—permanently expropriated, never to be returned, the hoodie equivalent of a territorial claim—with her glasses on and a mug of tea in her hand and the particular expression of a woman who was watching her partner pack for a trip she wasn’t joining and was handling it fine.

She was handling it fine. Em handled everything fine. That was her superpower and her curse.

“The navy,” Alex repeated, holding up the blazer. “Not the charcoal?”

“The navy does things to your shoulders. The charcoal is fine. The navy is—” Em sipped her tea. “The navy should come with a content warning.”

“A content warning.”

“For the viewers. ‘The following broadcast contains shoulders that may cause distraction, impaired judgment, and the sudden urge to text your ex.’ That kind of warning.”

“You’re my ex.”

“I’m your current. The warning still applies.”

Alex set the navy blazer in the suitcase. Folded it carefully—she’d learned to fold, living with Em, the way you learn any language through immersion and repetition and the quiet, persistent disapproval of a native speaker watching you butcher the grammar.

“I’m going to miss you,” Em said.

“It’s four days.”

“I know. I’m still going to miss you.”

“What specifically will you miss?”

“Your coffee. Your terrible morning editorials about the Timberwolves. The way you leave your socks on the bathroom floor like a person who was raised by wolves—”

“What else?”

Em set the tea on the dresser. Crossed the room. She moved the way she always moved—steady, purposeful, the walk of a woman who knew where she was going—and stopped at the suitcase. Reached in. Touched the navy blazer, running her finger down the lapel the way you’d trace a scar or a tattoo or any mark on a body that meant something.

“I’m going to miss your hands,” Em said. Quiet. Not performing. Just honest, in the way Em was honest when the armor was off and the clipboard was down and it was just the two of them in a room that smelled like laundry and home.

Alex closed the suitcase. “Then let me give you something to remember.”

They undressed each other slowly. Not because there was a reason to be slow—there was no crisis, no urgency, no fight to metabolize or wall to dismantle. They were slow because they could be. Because the house was quiet and the night was long and they’d earned the luxury of taking their time.

Alex started with the hoodie. She unzipped it—her own hoodie, on Em’s body, the possessiveness of the gesture never lost on either of them—and pushed it off Em’s shoulders. Underneath, a tank top. Underneath that, a bra she didn’t bother with at home, which meant Em’s nipples were visible through the thin cotton, and Alex’s mouth went dry at the sight of something she’d seen a thousand times and would never stop wanting.

She pulled the tank top over Em’s head. Pressed her mouth to Em’s shoulder—the left one, where the freckles were densest, a constellation she’d mapped with her tongue enough times to have them memorized but would never stop rediscovering.

“One,” Alex said, kissing a freckle.

“What are you doing?”

“Counting.” Another kiss. “Two.”

“You’re counting my freckles.”

“I’m inventorying. Before I leave. In case any new ones appear while I’m gone.”

She kissed across Em’s collarbone, each freckle a waypoint. She reached the hollow of Em’s throat, where no freckles lived but where Em’s pulse was fast and visible, and she pressed her lips there and felt the drumming against her mouth like a message in code.

She knelt. Pressed her mouth to Em’s stomach—the soft curve of it, the skin warm under her lips, the faint stretch marks at the hips that Alex had kissed so many times they’d become as familiar as her own body.

“You’re so beautiful,” Alex said. “Right here. This is my favorite place on your body.”

She pulled Em’s underwear down. Looked up at Em—naked, above her, backlit by the lamp, the compass rose tattoo dark against her wrist.

“But mostly I think about this.” Alex pressed her mouth between Em’s legs—not parting her, not entering, just pressing. The heat of Em against her lips, the scent of her—warm, musky, unmistakably aroused—flooding Alex’s senses.

Em’s hand tightened in her hair. “Bed. Now.”

Alex guided her backward until Em’s legs hit the mattress and she sat. Alex settled between her legs, and the angle was perfect—Em above, Alex below, the geometry of worship.

She licked Em in a single, slow, devastating stroke. Base to tip, flat tongue, tasting salt and heat and the specific, intoxicating flavor that was purely Em.

Em’s hips bucked. Her hand fisted in Alex’s hair. “Fuck. Right there.”

“Tell me what you want. Be specific.”

“I want your tongue on my clit. Hard. And I want your fingers inside me. Deep. And I want you to make me come so hard I feel it on Wednesday when you’re in New York.”

“How many fingers?”

“Three.”

Alex’s stomach dropped. Three was new. Three was Em asking for something she’d never asked for, because the trust had deepened past the point where asking felt like risk.

She sealed her lips over Em’s clit and sucked—firmly, precisely. At the same time, she brought her hand up. Two fingers first—sliding inside with the ease of long familiarity. Em moaned. “More.”

Alex added the third finger. The stretch was different—fuller, tighter, Em’s body opening around her with a resistance that became acceptance that became a groan so raw it sounded like it had been pulled from the foundation of her.

“Oh god,” Em breathed. “Oh—that’s—don’t you dare stop.”

Alex fucked Em with three fingers—slow at first, letting her adjust, then building. Her tongue worked Em’s clit in steady, insistent circles, matching the rhythm of her hand.

“You feel incredible,” Alex said against her. “You’re so tight around my fingers. So wet. I can feel you clenching every time I push in.”

“Don’t stop talking.”

Alex curled her fingers upward, finding the spot that made Em’s entire body jolt. She pressed harder, circled with her fingertips while her tongue worked Em’s clit, and the combination pushed Em to the edge so fast the orgasm ambushed her.

Em came with a scream. A full, open, uncensored scream that filled the bedroom. Her body clamped around Alex’s fingers in rhythmic, pulsing contractions. Em’s thighs clamped around Alex’s head, her hand fisted in Alex’s hair hard enough to hurt, and the sound she made was Alex’s name and a profanity and something wordless.

Alex stayed with her through it—gentling her tongue, softening the rhythm, letting Em ride the aftershocks in gradually diminishing waves.

When Em’s thighs finally loosened, Alex eased her fingers out—slowly, gently. She kissed Em’s inner thigh, her hip, climbed up her body and kissed her mouth.

“Three,” Em said, against her mouth.

“Three.”

“We should have done that months ago.” Em bit Alex’s lower lip. “My turn. And I’m not going to be gentle.”

Em pushed Alex onto her back with a force that was both familiar and thrilling—the specific, authoritative energy of Emily Dawson deciding that she was in charge.

Em moved up. Positioned herself over Alex’s face—knees on either side of Alex’s head, hands braced on the headboard. The heat of her was immediate—close, wet, the scent of her arousal filling Alex’s senses.

“Open your mouth,” Em said.

Alex opened her mouth. Em lowered herself. The contact was total—Em’s cunt against Alex’s lips, the weight of her settling. Alex gripped Em’s thighs and licked up into her.

“God,” Em breathed, grinding down. “Your mouth. I’m going to think about your mouth every night this week.”

Em rode her face with purpose, her hips rolling in a pattern that ground her clit against Alex’s tongue on every pass. She looked down. “You look so good down there. This is what I’m going to picture every night you’re gone.”

She came with her hands white-knuckled on the headboard and her thighs trembling and Alex’s name bitten off in a sound that was half moan and half growl.

Em lifted off. Collapsed beside her. Then she looked at Alex with eyes already sharpening again.

“I’m going to mark you,” Em said.

“Mark me?”

“Under the blazer. Where no one can see them except you. So when you’re sitting in that studio analyzing hockey in front of a million people, you’ll feel them. And you’ll know who put them there.”

Em lowered her mouth to Alex’s shoulder. The spot just below the collarbone, where the blazer would cover. She bit—hard enough that Alex felt the sharp bloom of pain transmute instantly into a deep, spreading warmth.

“One.” She kissed the mark. Moved lower. Bit again—the inner curve of Alex’s breast. “Two.”

Then the ridge of Alex’s hip. Then the inside of her thigh—the bite sending a jolt of sensation directly to her clit.

“Every time you put on that blazer this week,” Em murmured against her thigh, “you’re going to feel these. And you’re going to think about me.”

Em settled between Alex’s legs. Two fingers inside, curling, her lips sealed around Alex’s clit, her tongue working in the rhythm she’d mastered through months of study.

Alex came fast—a sharp, sudden orgasm that hit before she was ready.

Em didn’t stop. She kept going. Through the sensitivity, through the aftershocks, through the point where Alex’s body was saying too much and her brain was saying more.

“Em—I can’t—”

“You can. One more. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The second orgasm was different. Deeper. Slower. A slow, rolling release that started at the base of her spine and moved upward, expanding. She came crying—not sobbing, just tears, the overflow of a body that had been loved past the point of composure.

Em climbed up her body. Kissed the tears. Held her.

Em reached for the nightstand drawer. The strap-on was there—the one they’d bought together, after an evening of research that had involved more giggling than seriousness.

“I want to fuck you,” Em said. Not asking. Stating. “Properly. Before you go.”

Em stepped into the harness. Adjusted the straps. The visual was devastating—Em naked except for the harness, the black silicone jutting from her hips, her body soft and strong and freckled.

Em climbed onto the bed. Between Alex’s legs. The tip pressed against Alex’s entrance. “Look at me,” Em said.

Alex looked at her. Em pressed forward. Slowly. The stretch was gradual—inch by inch, Em controlling the pace, until she was fully inside, their hips pressed together.

“Oh,” Alex breathed. “Fuck, that’s—don’t move yet. Let me feel it.”

Em held still. Then Alex’s heels dug in. “Now move.”

Em fucked her. Not gentle. Deep, hard, the kind that made the headboard hit the wall and the bed shake. Alex’s hands found Em’s ass—gripping, pulling, urging deeper.

Em reached between them. Found Alex’s clit and rubbed in fast, tight circles while she thrust. The dual stimulation sent Alex spiraling.

Alex came hard, clenching, her body locking around the shaft, screaming into the pillow.

They switched. Alex stepped into the harness. Em lay on her back and looked up at her.

“Come here,” Em said.

Alex climbed over her. The slow, deep slide of entering Em—watching her face change, the parting of her lips, the small, involuntary oh—was the most erotic thing Alex had experienced in her life.

“Harder,” Em said. “Don’t hold back.”

Alex didn’t hold back. She braced her arms and drove into Em—deep, hard, the kind that was athletic and demanding. Em’s legs wrapped around her waist, heels digging in.

Em came first—her body arching, her walls clenching around the shaft, her mouth open in a cry that was Alex’s name repeated until it became pure sound. Alex followed seconds later from the grinding pressure, both of them falling together.

She collapsed onto Em. Into Em. Both of them shaking and tangled and wrecked.

They lay in the dark afterward. Wrecked. The sheets were a crime scene. Gretzky, banished to the living room, was yowling at the closed door in protest.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Alex said.

“That’s a compliment.”

“That’s a medical concern.”

“You’ll recover on the flight.”

They cleaned up. Got water. Came back to bed. Lay under the glow-in-the-dark stars.

Em traced the bruises she’d left on Alex’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I want them.”

“You’re going to have bite marks under your blazer on national television.”

“Good. I’ll think about you every time I move.”

“That’s the idea.”

Quiet. The rink hummed, three blocks away—Patricia, reliable, constant.

“Four days,” Alex said.

“Four days.”

“I’ll FaceTime you from the hotel.”

“So I can see the bite marks?”

“So I can see your face. The bite marks are a bonus.”

Em pressed closer. Her breathing slowed. Then, very softly, against Alex’s shoulder:

“Come home to me.”

“Always,” Alex whispered. “Every time. Every flight. Every Wednesday. I’ll always come home to you.”

Em pressed closer. The stars glowed. The moonlight moved across the bed. Alex didn’t sleep yet. She lay in the dark and listened to Em breathe and felt the marks on her body—the bites, the scratches, the tender places where she’d been loved with enough force to leave evidence.

She’d go. She’d work. She’d be good at it. And then she’d come home. To the rink and the coffee and the cat on the pillow and the glow-in-the-dark stars and the woman who’d waited, not because she had to, but because she wanted to.

“I love you,” Alex whispered, to the sleeping woman, to the stars, to the house that held them, to the life they’d built.

Em smiled in her sleep. Or maybe she wasn’t sleeping.

It didn’t matter. The answer was the same.

They were home. They were together. And the morning was coming.

The count was forever now.

And forever was just getting started.

Thank you for reading. Em and Alex’s story means everything to me.

— Aurora North

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