"Can we not discuss my sex life or lack thereof in the middle of a hockey arena parking lot?" I hiss, mortified.
"So you admit there could be a sex life with my cousin?" Penn pounces on my words like a cat with a wounded mouse. "Interesting development. Very interesting."
Lincoln clears his throat. "As fascinating as Reese’s love life is?—"
"Nonexistent love life," I interject.
"—we should probably get going before the post-game traffic gets worse," Lincoln finishes, always the practical one.
"Fine, fine," Penn sighs dramatically. "Tell Rams Iexpect a full report on his possessive tendencies at dinner this Sunday. With charts and graphs, preferably."
"I'm not telling him that," I mutter, already typing a response to Ramsey.
What they say about brothers being the most embarrassing thing you will ever experience is absolutely true, and the heat radiating off my face could warm an entire home.
The second we're through the door, he drops his hockey bag on the floor with a heavy thud and collapses onto our couch, letting out a groan that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest all night. His head falls back against the cushions, eyes closing as he sprawls out, taking up way more space than any one person should.
"Fuck, that was brutal," he mutters, wincing as he flexes his battered hands.
I bite my lip, looking at the mess that is his face and hands. "Don't move. I'm getting the first-aid kit."
"Reese, you don't?—"
I'm already heading to the kitchen before he can finish his protest. Our first aid kit is practically a small hospital at this point—the result of living with a hockey player who gets into more fights than a professional boxer.
I grab the kit from under the sink and hurry back to the living room, dropping to my knees in front of him. My breath catches when I get a closer look at the damage. His knuckles are split open, crusted with dried blood, andthere's a nasty cut above his right eyebrow where Thompson must have caught him with a stray fist.
"Jesus, Rams," I mutter, opening the kit and pulling out antiseptic and gauze. "You look like shit."
He cracks one eye open, watching me as I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad. "It’s sexy, though." His eyes drift down to where I'm kneeling between his spread legs, and something flickers across his face—something that makes my fingers fumble with the cotton pad. "Though I gotta say, this view almost makes the beating worth it."
I feel my cheeks flush hot at his comment. "Don't be an ass while I'm trying to help you," I mutter, reaching for his hand.
"You don't need to do that," he says, trying to pull away.
I roll my eyes and tighten my grip on his wrist. "No, I don't, but I'm gonna because if you get gangrene from that St. James ass, I'm gonna be so mad. So shut up, sit there, and look pretty while I clean you up."
Ramsey's lips curl into a smirk that does dangerous things to my insides. "Yes, ma'am," he drawls, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my skin tingle. "But we're gonna circle back to you thinking I'm pretty."
"I didn't—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat when his thumb brushes over my skin. I focus on cleaning the cuts across his knuckles instead, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps under his touch.
He hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away. "Careful, star. I might start thinking you like seeing me bleed."
"Don't be dramatic," I mutter. "You know, normal people use words to solve problems."
"I'm notnormal people," he says simply.
God, isn't that the fucking truth. There's nothing normal about Ramsey Blackwood—from his insane hockey skills to the way he can go from laughing to looking like he wants to murder someone in the span of a heartbeat.
I finish with his hand and shift my attention to the cut above his eyebrow. It's not as bad as it looked at first, but it's still oozing blood. I reach up, tilting his face toward the light.
"Hold still," I command, standing up to get a better angle.
He complies, but his hands come to rest on my hips, steadying me as I lean over him. His fingers dig in slightly, and the pressure sends a jolt of heat straight through me. I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are—my body between his spread legs, his face tilted up toward mine, those intense blue eyes watching my every move.
I lose my balance trying to reach the cut, my feet slipping on the hardwood floor. "Shit?—"
Without thinking, I scramble forward to keep from falling and end up straddling his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs. My hands grab his shoulders to steady myself, the first aid supplies clattering to the floor.
