"Sorry, I just—" The words die in my throat as I settle fully onto his lap and feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against my inner thigh. Holy. Fucking. Shit. That's not a hockey stick in his pocket.
My eyes snap to his, and the look on his face knocks thebreath from my lungs. His pupils are blown wide, those ocean irises just thin rings around bottomless black. He's completely still beneath me, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths. The only movement is the pulse hammering in his throat.
"Rams..." My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to be breathing now. The silence between us is deafening, broken only by my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I should move. I should absolutely get the fuck off his lap right now. But my body refuses to cooperate, frozen in place as heat floods through me.
"I still need to..." I gesture weakly at the cut above his eyebrow, trying to act normal even though there's nothing normal about feeling my best friend's dick pressing against me.
His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, strained rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
"Do what you need to do."
Right. The cut. I'm here to patch him up, not to think about the fact that he's hard as fucking granite beneath me. I reach for the butterfly bandage I dropped on the couch, hyper-aware of every tiny movement, every brush of my body against his.
I lean forward to clean the cut, and the shift in position presses me more firmly against his erection. A small sound escapes him—not quite a groan, more like he's being strangled—and his hands tighten on my hips so hard I'll probably have bruises tomorrow.
"Sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
Focusing on the task at hand even though my fingers are trembling may just be the hardest thing I’ve had to do. The antiseptic makes him hiss, his hips jerking up involuntarily. The movement grinds him against my core, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"Almost done," I murmur, carefully placing the bandage over the cut. I'm hyperaware of his eyes on me, burning into my skin.
"There," I say, smoothing the edges of the bandage with my thumb. "All better."
I should move. Right now. But his hands are still on my hips, and my body feels heavy and hot, like I'm running a fever. The silence between us stretches.
"Rams?" I finally whisper, my voice barely audible. "You okay?"
"Yeah, star," he finally says, voice rough like gravel being crushed under a tire. "I'm just fine, thanks for fixing my hands and my pretty face."
Fucking asshole. He's making jokes while I'm sitting here while he’s got the Washington freaking Monument in his pants. I huff, exasperation flooding through me as I scramble off his lap, my cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg.
"Just for that," I snap, "I'm not making you anything to eat. You can fend for yourself."
I stomp toward the kitchen, muttering under my breath. "Conceited, cocky, good-for-nothing pretty hockey boys thinking they're God's gift to the fucking universe."
"I heard that," he calls after me, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
"You were supposed to!" I shout back, yanking open the cupboard with more force than necessary. My body is still humming with...something. Adrenaline? Embarrassment? The lingering heat of feeling him hard beneath me?
Dropping the kit back on the shelf, I decide to go up to my room and avoid him for literally the rest of the night because the embarrassment is too damn much to handle.
The worst part of it all is, for one crazy moment, I wondered what it would be like to be his. What if instead of being friends, after I patched him up he kissed me and made me see the constellations?
What fucking if.
Chapter 7
Ramsey
"Fuck."
My dick is so hard it could break through a fucking ice rink. I adjust myself, hissing at the painful friction as I watch Reese stomp up the stairs, her perfect ass swaying in those goddamn leggings that might as well be painted on.
I grip the armrest of the couch, knuckles turning white as I try to get my shit together. Four years. Four fucking years of wanting her and never letting myself have her. Four years of jerking off to the thought of her while she sleeps just one floor above me, completely fucking oblivious to the fact that I'm downstairs coming all over my fist with her name on my lips.
