🔥 Cup Night 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Scene from Five Hole

Thank You for Reading! 💕

You made it to the bonus content—which means you’ve experienced Declan and Sloane’s journey from enemies to forever. Thank you for giving their story a chance.

This exclusive scene is our gift to dedicated readers like you. It’s set the night they win the Stanley Cup—after the champagne, after the interviews, after everyone else has gone home. Just the two of them, a championship trophy in the living room, and all the ways a man shows his woman exactly what winning feels like.

This scene is too explicit for retail platforms, so you’ll only find it here.

✨ EXCLUSIVE BONUS SCENE ✨

Cup Night

Stanley Cup Finals, Game 7 — After the Victory

SLOANE

The Stanley Cup was sitting on Declan’s kitchen counter.

It was 3:47 AM, and I still couldn’t stop staring at it. The champagne had dried in my hair hours ago, my voice was shot from screaming, and I was pretty sure I had confetti in places confetti had no business being. But none of that mattered.

Because my fiancé—my fiancé, that word still sent electricity down my spine—was a Stanley Cup champion.

And he was looking at me like I was the real prize.

“You’re still in that dress,” Declan said from the doorway, his voice rough from the post-game celebrations. He’d stripped off his suit jacket somewhere between the team party and the car, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and loosened his tie. He looked devastatingly undone.

I looked down at myself. The navy blue dress I’d worn to the game was wrinkled, champagne-stained, and definitely too formal for leaning against a kitchen counter at 4 AM. “I was distracted. Someone proposed to me in a locker room full of hockey players.”

“Someone proposed to you in front of forty million television viewers.” He crossed the kitchen, each step deliberate, predatory. “I’m pretty sure Tommy’s reaction is going to be a meme for the next decade.”

“Tommy cried harder than your mother.”

“Tommy cries at car commercials.” Declan stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the champagne on his skin, see the exhaustion and exhilaration warring in his gray eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself, champion.”

His mouth curved, and God, I would never get tired of that smile. The one he saved for me. “Say it again.”

“What, champion? Stanley Cup champion? The greatest goaltender of his generation? The Wall who finally—”

He kissed me before I could finish, one hand cupping my jaw, the other sliding around my waist to pull me against him. It wasn’t the desperate, claiming kiss from the locker room. This was slower. Deeper. The kiss of a man who had finally gotten everything he ever wanted and planned to savor every second.

“Fiancée,” he murmured against my lips. “Say that again.”

“Fiancée.” I smiled against his mouth. “Mrs. O’Rourke-to-be. Future wife of the—”

“Sloane.” His hand tightened on my hip. “If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to do something about that mouth.”

“Promises, promises.”

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, and the look there made my breath catch. “I’ve been waiting all night to get you alone. Through every interview, every photo, every champagne toast—all I could think about was getting you home.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “Getting this dress off you. Showing you exactly what winning feels like.”

Heat pooled low in my belly. “The Cup is watching.”

Declan glanced at the trophy, then back at me with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Let it watch. It’s been waiting thirty-five years to see what I do when I finally have everything I want.”

Before I could respond, he lifted me onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between my thighs and pushing the skirt of my dress up. The cold marble against my bare thighs made me gasp.

“Cold?” he asked, but he was already reaching for the freezer.

“What are you—”

He came back with a handful of ice, and the look on his face was pure, predatory intent. “I’ve been thinking about this for hours. About how I wanted to celebrate. About all the ways I want to make you scream my name tonight.”

“Declan—”

“I spent twelve years chasing this Cup.” He pressed an ice cube to the hollow of my throat, and I shivered as cold water traced down my collarbone. “Twelve years of early mornings, late nights, missed holidays. Every save, every shutout, every playoff game—it was all leading here.”

The ice slid lower, tracing the neckline of my dress. “But you know what I thought about when we were down 2-1 in the third period? When Boston had a two-on-one and I had to make the save of my life?”

I couldn’t speak. The cold was melting into heat everywhere he touched, my skin pebbling with goosebumps and need.

“You.” He dragged the ice cube between my breasts, leaving a trail of moisture that soaked through the thin fabric. “Sitting in Section 203 wearing my jersey. The way you looked at me during warmups. The way you always look at me, like I’m already a champion, even when I don’t feel like one.”

“Declan.” My voice came out strangled.

“You’re my five hole, Sloane.” He let the ice melt against my skin, then replaced it with his mouth, hot and demanding. “You found the opening. Slipped past every defense I had. And now you’re here, in my kitchen at 4 AM, wearing my ring, and I’m going to spend the rest of our lives showing you what that means to me.”

He kissed me again, harder this time, and I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. The champagne dress was ruined anyway. Might as well make it worth it.

“More,” I breathed against his mouth. “I need more.”

“Greedy.” He nipped at my lower lip. “I love that about you.”

His hands found the zipper at the back of my dress and tugged it down with practiced efficiency. The navy fabric pooled at my waist, leaving me in nothing but a strapless bra that Declan dispensed with in seconds.

“Fucking beautiful.” His voice was reverent, rough. “Every time I see you like this, I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” I pulled at his shirt, frustrated by buttons. “Now prove it.”

He laughed, low and dark, and lifted me off the counter. “Not here. I want you in our bed the first time I make you come as my fiancée.”

“First time?” I clutched his shoulders as he carried me toward the bedroom. “How many times are you planning?”

“I’m a goaltender, baby. I’m trained for endurance.” He kicked open the bedroom door. “And we have three days before any official obligations. I plan to use every hour.”

He laid me on the bed like I was something precious, then stood back to strip off his shirt. In the dim light from the city outside, he looked like something out of a dream—broad shoulders, defined abs, that V of muscle that disappeared into his dress pants. The man was thirty-two years old and built like a Greek god who’d taken up professional sports.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“You’re stare-worthy.”

He crawled over me, settling his weight between my thighs, and the press of him against me made us both groan. “I’ve been half-hard since the third period. Watching you jump up and down in that dress, knowing what was underneath, knowing I was going to have you in my bed before sunrise—”

“Less talking.” I arched up against him. “More celebrating.”

“Bossy.” But he was already kissing down my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I cried out and fisted my hands in his hair.

He took his time. That was the thing about Declan—he’d spent his entire life learning patience, waiting for exactly the right moment to make his move. And now he applied that same devastating focus to my body, learning every sensitive spot, cataloging every gasp and whimper.

“Please,” I begged when he’d worked his way down to my hip, when his breath was hot against my inner thigh. “Declan, please—”

“Please what?” He pressed a kiss to my thigh, maddeningly close to where I needed him. “Tell me what you want, Sloane.”

“Your mouth. Your fingers. You. I don’t care, just—” I broke off on a moan as his tongue finally touched me, hot and perfect and exactly right.

“Good girl.” He licked into me slowly, savoring, like I was the champagne he’d been waiting to taste all night. “That’s my good girl.”

I shattered faster than I expected, the combination of the long night, the proposal, and his talented mouth pushing me over the edge in minutes. But Declan didn’t stop. He worked me through the aftershocks and straight into another climb, adding his fingers, curling them against the spot that made me see stars.

“Again,” he demanded against my sensitive flesh. “Give me another one.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He twisted his fingers, pressed his tongue flat against my clit, and I screamed through my second orgasm while he held me down and drank every drop.

When he finally crawled back up my body, I was boneless, trembling, barely coherent. He kissed me deep, letting me taste myself on his lips, and the raw possession in it made me clench around nothing.

“I need you inside me,” I managed. “Now, Declan. Please.”

He didn’t make me ask again. One smooth thrust and he was buried to the hilt, both of us groaning at the sensation. He held still for a long moment, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged.

“I love you.” His voice was wrecked. “I love you so fucking much, Sloane. You’re everything. You’re the whole goddamn game.”

“I love you too.” I pulled his mouth back to mine. “Now move.”

He moved.

Long, deep strokes that hit every nerve ending. His hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise while the other tangled in my hair. The sounds we made filling the room—skin against skin, moans and whispered names and declarations that wouldn’t be coherent in the morning.

“Harder,” I demanded, and he gave me harder.

“Deeper,” I begged, and he hooked my leg over his shoulder and drove in so deep I forgot how to breathe.

“Right there, right there, don’t stop—”

“Never.” He slammed into me, relentless, tireless. “Never stopping. You’re mine now, Sloane. Forever. Say it.”

“Yours.” I was climbing again, impossibly, inevitably. “I’m yours, Declan, I’m—”

The third orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, and this time I took him with me. He buried himself deep and groaned my name into my neck as we fell apart together.

Afterwards, we lay tangled together in the sheets, sweaty and satisfied and still wearing matching stupid grins. The Stanley Cup was probably judging us from the kitchen. I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Best Cup Day ever,” Declan murmured against my hair.

I laughed, running my fingers through his damp hair. “You haven’t even taken it to Connor’s grave yet.”

“That’s tomorrow.” He pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Tonight was about us. About celebrating the two things that matter most.”

“The Cup and…?”

“The woman who made winning it mean something.” He tilted my face up to kiss me, soft and sweet. “You changed everything, Sloane. Every victory, every record, every achievement—they’re all better because you’re here to share them with.”

My heart clenched. “That might be the champagne talking.”

“That’s the truth talking.” He cupped my face in his hands. “You’re my five hole, remember? The opening I never knew I needed. The place where love finally got through.”

I kissed him again, pouring everything I felt into it—the gratitude, the joy, the bone-deep certainty that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

“So,” I said when we finally came up for air, “you mentioned something about three days and endurance training?”

His grin was pure wicked promise. “Give me twenty minutes and some of that leftover champagne, and I’ll show you why goalies have the best stamina in the league.”

“Twenty minutes?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a champion.”

“Fine. Ten.” He rolled me beneath him, already kissing down my neck. “But you’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Promises, promises.”

He kept every single one.

~ The End ~

Want More Declan & Sloane?

Their story continues in the Chicago Sentinels series, where you’ll see them as a happily married couple cheering on their teammates’ romance journeys.

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