Why the hell am I getting so worked up over a man I hate? It’s not like I want him to fuck me or anything. If anything, even that kiss was a mistake I sorely regret. And it wasn’t even that good.
Sureee, if you say so.
Shut up, brain! My disappointment soon turns into outrage, both at him for kissing me and at me for reciprocating and enjoying it.
Stacy jostles me out of my angry spiral. My first thought at seeing her is that she knows, and mybody tenses right up, waiting for her to fire me. “You, alright?” she asks instead, concern etched on her face.
I search her face for any hint of knowledge of the kiss, but find none. My shoulders drop as I breathe a little easier.
Remembering she asked me a question, I give her a tight smile and a little nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.
Glad that she won’t be interrogating me, I excuse myself and walk over to the bar and order a shot of vodka and tip it back in one go as it slides down my throat, leaving a distracting burn in its wake.
I promise myself that I’ll not think about him or the kiss. Not for a single second.
* * *
I lied.
I thought about him and the kiss—every second of every day for the last week.
I thought about those plump lips on mine as I slid my fingers inside of me. I thought about his thighs between mine as I rubbed my bundle of nerves. I thought about his hands on every inchof me as I set a pace. And I thought of his deep, rough, and gravely groans when I made myself come.
Not once.
Not twice.
Far more than that.
But you wouldn’t catch me dead admitting that out loud.
I’ve never come as quickly and intensely as I did to the mere thoughts of him. Andthatis troublesome.
So, whenever I come across Ezra in the arena, we pretend that nothing happened, like his lips never embraced mine as his tongue ravaged my mouth. Like his hands never mapped the length of my body, leaving behind a ghost of his touch imprinted in my mind. Like, I haven’t made myself unabashedly come to obscene thoughts of him.
And we’re quite good at pretending, if I do say so myself. No one has even a pinch of suspicion about us and our highly unprofessional behavior. Though I often find his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking.
He doesn’t realize that the touch of his gaze is like a burning sensation, bringing all of mysenses to life. I’m always aware of his proximity.
My eyes find him, too, when he’s oblivious to his surroundings, focused on his training. I’m always in awe of his skill and how he so effortlessly dances on the ice. He’s not alone on the ice, but for me, he might as well be the only one playing. There’s just something about him that has me enraptured. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders or tapered waist. Maybe it’s the way he plays. Maybe it’s the way he kissed me. Maybe it’s the way he defended me.
Or maybe…maybe it’s justhim.
And the fact that he has such a strong grip over my emotions and actions doesn’t bode well with me. I need to distract myself.
So, I force myself to ignore him and his larger-than-life presence. I ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his vicinity. I most definitely avoid thinking about his lips on mine.
Now, all that’s left is to actually find me a guy to fuck so that I can get over Ezra.
He and his addictive touch are bad for my health.
Nineteen
Ezra
Ifucked up.
Royally at that.
