Our eyes lock, and I feel that staticky feeling again. It’s the weirdest feeling ever and has my heart racing. I don’t know why it happens. Neither of us says a word. I don’t call him out for messaging me not seconds ago, and he doesn’t speak. We only stare at each other. I think Ella says something, but I’m lost in Dawson’s eyes.
Needing to center myself, I move my hand down to pinch my thigh. The pain reminds me this is real. I swallow as I feel his gaze moving along my face, taking in my every feature. I have never felt a man do that, but I know he is. I know he is memorizing me because he has the same look on his face he has before he makes a play on or off the ice. I will not admit this to anyone, but I watched his game this past weekend.
When the camera zoomed in on his face, I could see his eyes moving and calculating through his facemask. His hair wassweaty along his forehead, but it was the way he stood with such confidence that had me squirming on my couch. After he threw a touchdown, he ran like he was skating on ice, fast and efficient, to his receiver before he wrapped him up in a hug. They did some weird-ass handshake before doing a little dance that I’m sure they choreographed before they went off to the sidelines, the love between quarterback and receiver glowing on them.
I enjoyed watching him play.
A lot.
And I hate myself for it.
But as I did when I was watching him on TV, I find him captivating with those greenish-brown eyes, the tilt of his lips, and the big dick energy that just vibrates around him.
Can I call it big dick energy when I know he’s packing?
I don’t know, but Dawson Sinclair has it in spades.
Unable to handle the way he is drinking me in like he is his coffee, I say, “Hotshot.”
“Hey there, heart-stopper.”
Fucking hell, that nickname.
Why does it make me shudder?
“I thought I said stay away from me?”
He shrugs, like that was ludicrous of me to ask. “You see, there is a problem with that request.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I can’t do it,” he says, leaning back and holding my gaze. “Like, I physically can’t.”
I gawk at him. “I’ll tell people what you said if you don’t.”
Do I sound childish? I sure do, but he doesn’t even care. His lips curve up higher.
“No, you won’t.”
“How do you know?” I challenge.
“Because you’re not an asshole, just a bit stabby.”
I blink and cross my arms over my chest, leaning back in the booth. “Fine. What can I do for you?”
Heat burns in his gaze, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the dirty ideas that are swirling in his eyes. He swallows hard, and I watch the movement of his Adam’s apple, wishing like hell my nose were there to feel it move.
Yeah, he needs to go.
“I need to know something.”
I blink. “And why, pray tell, do you think I’d tell you?”
“Because it’s about us.”
“Oh, there is no us.” I smirk.
“Yet.”
