I shook my head sharply. No. Not thinking about it again.
I’d come up here to do laundry. So, I’d do laundry.
My gaze fell on my unmade bed, the sheets rumpled and twisted from a restless and sweaty night of not thinking about Marco. Fine. I’d start with those.
I stripped the bed and bundled the sheets into my arms. Then I paused. This wasn’t even a full load. I might as well do Marco’s sheets too. Save water. Be helpful.
Not at all an excuse to avoid going back downstairs yet.
I headed down the hall to Marco’s room.
I stepped inside, and the lingering scent of his body wash hit me. Spicy and clean and dripping down his body.
Focus.Laundry.
I dropped my sheets to the floor and moved to the bed. Pulled back the comforter, started tugging at the fitted sheet.It came free easily on three corners, but the fourth was wedged tight between the mattress and the wall.
I leaned over and reached into the gap to pull it loose. My fingers brushed against something that wasn’t fabric.
A book.
I pulled it out, along with the sheet, and stared at it.
A well-worn paperback, the spine cracked from multiple readings. The cover showed two men in hockey jerseys—or half out of them, really. Close together, their faces inches apart in a way that was unmistakably intimate.
My brain stuttered to a complete stop.
This was… this was a romance novel. About hockey players. About two men.
Marco had a gay romance novel hidden under his pillow.
My hands moved before my brain caught up. I opened it, flipped through pages, and stopped when I hit a dog-eared corner.
The scene was explicit.
Two characters—teammates, apparently—in a hotel room after a game. One pressed against the wall, the other on his knees. The writing was detailed, unambiguous.
“God, yes, just like that?—”
“You feel so good, I can’t?—”
Heat flooded my face. I should close the book. Should put it back where I found it. Should absolutely not keep reading.
I kept reading.
My pulse jumped. My breathing went shallow. And my body responded—unmistakably, undeniably.
I was getting hard.
From reading about two men together.
The book slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a soft thud. I stared at it, then at the unmistakable evidence of my arousal, my mind racing in circles.
This was… I was…
Marco had this book. Had hidden it in his bed, marked this specific scene. Why? What did that mean?
But more importantly—more urgently—what didmyreaction mean?
