Then again, if he really hasn’t slept with anyone in eight months, a gust of wind might be enough to get him hard.
In any case, it absolutely cannot happen again. Cole and I are friends, nothing more. In a few months he will be healed and ready to go back to his fancy apartment in Vancouver, eager to lead his teammates to the Cup. Far away from me and ready to fuck anyone he likes without the whole town talking about it. Meanwhile, I will be here, wishing him a life of glory but hoping beyond hope that he’ll come back.
There is no space for me in his Vancouver life. It’s a harsh truth to accept, but one I cannot change. His is a life of tabloids, of hockey games and money and charity functions, while mine is one of simplicity. I would never give up the café for anyone, least of all a man. I saw what that kind of life did to my mother, and I want no part of it.
Even if it’s him.
The air is cold and harsh on my skin when I slip from Cole’s warm embrace. If I am going to get my head on straight enough to get through this weekend without ruining our friendship, I need to be as far away from him as I can.
We slept in—the clock says it’s nearly noon. I can’t remember the last time that happened, but after sleeping through the nightlike this, I can’t say I’m surprised Cole brought that side of me back out. The part that knows how to relax, and still listens to what her body tells her. I didn’t know that part of me was still there, to be honest.
The blanket of snow climbs high against the living room windows, and big fat flakes continue to fall as I make my way down the stairs. I won’t be going home anytime soon.
To my surprise, Cole really did go shopping before the storm hit, so his fridge and cabinets are fully stocked. He’s even got some of my favorite snacks, like cheese chips, arranged neatly in a cupboard. Does he secretly like them, or did he know better than to assume I wouldn’t need rescue?
I take the eggs and milk from the fridge and put them on the counter with the flour and a bowl. Pancakes have always been Cole’s favorite breakfast food, even though he can almost never eat them due to his strict athlete’s diet. Now that he’s out for the season, though, I’m sure he can make an exception.
Even in the kitchen that damn Christmas tree sits right in my line of sight, and paired with the snow coming down it’s impossible not to feel merry. A medley of Christmas songs plays in my head and I hum along as I whip up the batter for the pancakes, the domesticity of it all nearly foreign.
It’s not a bad feeling, though. I actually kind of enjoy it. It’s strange; I’ve just come out of a long term relationship, but I didn’t feel as at home at his place as I do here. It was clear X’s house was his place, but with Cole, it’s more likeours. He’s stressed that many times, even leaning on me to help making decisions when it was still being built. It’s impossible not to feel at home somewhere when you helped create it.
Even with him here, I don’t think my life would change for the worse if I lived here. Cole isn’t afraid of hard work, and he loves a clean house, so it’s not like I would be picking up after him. It’s more likely to be the other way around. He’s slept onmy couch often enough for us to have found a strange rhythm in cohabitation. It would be so easy to see myself in this space with him, to share in his life that way.
Until I remember how much richer he is. The moment that realization hits, my walls shoot right back up, almost embarrassed I let myself imagine it.
I must be humming louder than I realize, as Cole strides into the kitchen without me having heard him come down the stairs. My heart gives a little thump at the sight of him and I swallow against the feeling, wishing it would go away.
“Good morning, Honey,” Cole says when he comes up behind me, his voice dripping with sleep. His hand cups my hip, my skin sizzling in every place we connect as he reaches over my head to grab a glass from the upper cabinet. “Pancakes? I love pancakes.”
I smile, trying to push down the flutter in the lowest part of my belly as his hand remains firmly on my hip, big enough to cup most of it in his palm. “I know.”
If his fingers moved only an inch or two, he would be right where I want him, those rough callouses brushing right over my sensitive bud. I resist the urge to lean back, remembering the feeling of his hard cock pressed against my body.Just for you,he’d said. What does that even mean?
I know what I hope it means. I hope it means the mere thought of me turns him on, and having me next to him in bed makes him painfully hard no matter the time or day. I hope it means he thinks about what it would feel like to fuck me, to have me at my most vulnerable and make sure I know who’s in charge. Above all, I hope it means he looks at me the way I look at him—like a partner in crime for life.
Get it together, Adams.“Why don’t you go set the table? These will be done in a minute or two.”
I brace myself against the counter while he gets to work, trying to disguise the fact that my knees are weak from that single touch.Think of something else. Anything else. Dead bugs or roadkill or something.
Cole sets our plates on opposite sides of the table along with two glasses of water. I bite my cheek. This arrangement is better for conversation, sure. But I don’t think I can look at him without turning bright red.
Not when I’m still thinking about every place those hands could explore.
I drop a tall stack of pancakes on his plate before turning to make more. Hopefully that gives me enough time to banish those pesky thoughts and get back into the friend zone, where it’s safe.
I don’t get the chance, though, as his hand closes around my wrist with a laugh, pulling me into my chair. He splits his stack in half and dumps it on my plate.
“You made plenty,” Cole says, mouth already full of pancakes. It’s unfair that he still looks like he’s in some kind of billboard ad. “You know, you’ve gotten really good at making these. They’re just thick and fluffy enough. Remember the first time you tried? Those were rock-hard.”
This man knows how to pick his words, even unintentionally.Shit. My core throbs at the images they bring up, almost feeling the length of him press into my skin again. I tense my thigh muscles in a desperate attempt to keep myself in check, but it only makes the throbbing worse.
“Yeah,” I say with a shaky laugh. “I’ve been cheating off Manny, and practicing a lot.”
“It shows,” Cole says, and his kind smile makes me feel so guilty about the arousal rushing through my veins. He’s my best friend, for fuck’s sake.But he could be so much more.
His giant hands make the utensils look tiny in comparison, and my mind hyper-focuses on them, taking in every scar and bruise. His hands are always nice and warm, worn from decades of playing hockey but soft when they slide into mine. It’s not hard to imagine how they would feel gliding across my skin, cupping my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers. And when I was a needy, desperate mess of whimpers and lust, those hands would glide down to my thighs to spread my legs, leaving me right wide open for him to take. I bet they would feel heavenly on my most sensitive spot. Or sliding inside.
Shit.
