Fuck. Me.
I push past, but a rubber doorstop catches my attention. “Is that why I couldn’t get in?”
“Uh, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, face turning red. He looks everywhere but at me.
“Next time, just text me when you're showering.” If that’s what he needs to do to feel safe, I’ll work around it. “You need to finish? I can go to Knight's.”
“No, I'm done.” The flush deepens, spreading to his neck and chest.
I walk to my bed, drop my bag on the floor, then settle in, resting my back against the wall. I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open it. Might as well work on Professor Martinez's assignment.
Of course, it’s a personal injury case he worked on.
I can’t blame the man for being egotistical. It was a landmark case, taking four years of litigation. But they won a $200 million settlement for the families. It would’ve been incredible to be on that legal team.
Maybe that's what I want.
Not the NHL.
Or maybe it’s that I’d love to see the same look the CEO of that company had on my father’s face.
Ryan walks past, still in a towel. Wait. His calf . . . it’s tattooed? The design’s an intricate mix of swirls and patterns that extend from his ankle over his knee, but beneath, only slightly visible are faded white scars, like those on his hands.
Does it go higher?
Heat pools in my groin, my dick hardening.
Fuck.
I grab my pillow and place it over my lap, then refocus on the assignment. But his towel slips when he bends to open one of the dresser drawers.
“Oh, fuck.” My voice is deep, raspy.
Those light blue briefs cling to him like a second skin. And the tattoo does go higher. It’s a full leg sleeve on a very thick, very muscular thigh.
My dick’s so fucking hard. I reach under the pillow to squeeze it, trying to relieve some of the pressure.
“Shit.” Ryan scrambles for the towel.
And that’s when I see them, completely visible now.
So many scars.
Thick, raised lines. Some straight, others jagged and angry, running from mid-thigh down to his shin. There are places where the skin bunches and puckers, and a few shiny patches.
He covers himself up, shoulders hunching forward. “Sorry, I—”
“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Fuck. Didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh. I take a deep breath and try again. “Why do you have so many scars?”
Ryan sinks onto the edge of his bed, clutching the towel. He goes very still, then tears well up in his eyes. “Car accident.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago. It’s when my family died. How they died.”
“I'm sorry.” The words feel inadequate, especially after the shit my parents said to him.
Ryan grabs his blanket and covers his legs. “I know they're disgusting to look at.”
