I make the decisions.
I decide when enough is enough…so I’m not ever that vulnerable again.
“Hand it over, Henderson,” I order, extending my hand, palm up.
His eyes dance with humor, but he doesn’t pass me my e-reader back. Instead, he swipes…and—kill me now—keeps reading,“‘My mouth falls open and before I can find a retort—and I have to face it, one would be a long time coming.’”He glances up, the amusement in those gorgeous eyes growing. “Wouldn’t that be nice? If a certain someone’s retorts were stymied…”
I grind my teeth together. “You?—”
Before I can retort—and no, I don’t know if one would spring free, or if I would be like the heroine in this hockey romance, struggling to keep up with the pesky hero—he goes on, “‘Especially with that smirk he’s sporting and those twinkling eyes and the way his pants are just barely staying up…One tug and—’”Wide eyes. An even wider grin as he flicks his gaze down toward his sweats…which, indeed, are barely staying up. “Wanna try that tug out in real life?”
I snort. “In your dreams.”
He drops my e-reader into my hand, gently bends my fingers around the can-survive-an-atom-bomb case, and says, “Yeah, gorgeous, in my dreams. One hundred percent, in my dreams every night since I woke up and found my bed empty.”
My heart thuds hard, slamming against my ribs, stealing my breath. “I told you it was one night only.”
Half of his mouth hitches up. “Yeah, cookie, you did.” One big shoulder lifts, drops. “Or at least, you said it was onetimeonly.” The other half of his mouth curves up wickedly. “I changed your mind about that too.”
“I don’t want?—”
“Youdon’t want it,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But that doesn’t mean thatIonly wanted one night.”
Danger.Danger.
He brushes the backs of his knuckles over my cheek and the gentle touch undoes me…and simultaneously locks me into place. “I-it doesn’t matter,” I say, clinging to the words that thankfully slide off my tongue without me really thinking about them, growing stronger with each one I speak. “I wanted it to be one night, so it’s one night.”
I expect a reply.
Expect him to push back.
Instead, he stands there, steady and still and silent for three—I count—heartbeats. Then he drops his hand to his side and steps back.
I hate that he’s no longer touching me, hate more that he’s stepped back.
But a merefive—again, I count—heartbeats after he retreats that pace away, I’m contemplating murder.
Because he whips off his shirt, tosses it on the handle of the treadmill, and glances over his shoulder at me, eyes sparking with a challenge I feel the inner teenager in me unable to back down from.
“Okay, then,” he says easily as he begins pushing at the control panel on the treadmill.
I frown, trying my best to not drool over that gloriously naked torso, glistening lightly with sweat in the overhead lights. Narrow hips I wrapped my legs around as he pounded into me, a muscular back I dug my nails into, an ass I wanted to bite.
“Okay what?” I push out when I realize he’s still watching me, presumably waiting for a reply.
His eyes dance.
His grin reappears.
His question has me plotting homicide by dumbbell.
Because then he asks,
“So, how far are we running, cookie?”
Fourteen
Jace
