“No.” He traces a slow, deliberate path with his eyes from my face down to my toes and back up again, the intensity of it setting me on fire. “We’re finishing what you started. Privately.”
“You mean finishing whatyoustarted,” I correct, my voice embarrassingly reedy.
His lips turn down. “You’re the one who called in your favor.”
“Cameron.”
“Kennedy.”
“Davies!” Coach Henderson bellows. The shout is followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. The door flies open, revealing the red-faced coach. “Ice. Now. Or so help me, I will?—”
“I’m coming.” Cameron doesn’t break eye contact with me as he says it. There’s a promise in his gaze that makes my stomach flip.
I press myself against the wall, giving him space to pass, and as he does, he trails his fingers across my wrist, sending sparks racing up my arm and straight to my chest. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looks back over his shoulder. His expression is intense, determined, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “I’ll see you after the game, Kennedy. We’re not done.”
Then he’s gone, striding down the hallway while Coach Henderson mutters a string of complaints about “young people” and “priorities” behind him.
I stay frozen against the wall, my wrist still tingling where he touched me, my lips burning from the pressure of his, my entire nervous system recalibrating.
“Well,” I say to the room full of memorabilia and glory, “that escalated quickly.”
Maya doesn’t bat an eye when I tell her I’m going to head home after the game rather than meet her at O’Leary’s.
If anything, she expects it. Why wouldn’t she?
To her, it’s perfectly reasonable that I would want alone time with Cameron—myboyfriend—after an emotionally charged game. I can’t tell her that I’m freaking out because there’s a good chance that Cameron and I are going cross a line tonight that, once stepped over, blurs the boundaries of what’s real and what’s fake in our relationship.
The drive home passes in a haze of streetlights and racing thoughts, but I manage a quick stop at Target. Maybe it’s presumptuous, but I have no idea if Cameron carries condoms around, and I have no interest in teenage pregnancy despite being in my late twenties.
While I wait at my apartment, the silence and anticipation are suffocating. As the minutes tick by with no knock at my door or text lighting up my phone, I start to wonder if I misread things. Maybe after the win, he wants to celebrate with his team. Maybe he decided that it’s a stupid idea to add sex into the mix. That always complicates things. Maybe he?—
A fist pounds against my door with so much force I nearly tumble off the couch.
Pulse picking up, I scurry across the apartment. I yank the door open and find Cameron on the other side, chest heaving, wearing a suit. His tie is loose around his neck, a casual look that doesn’t match the wild gleam in his eyes.
“Sorry I’m late.” His tone is a mix of panic and pain. “The reporters wouldn’t let up, and I couldn’t exactly brush them off tonight, because Henderson’s still pissed. When I finally got out of there, I sped this way and got pulled over—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I thought you changed your mind,” I admit, heart hammering in my ribs.
He reels back as if I’ve hit him. “Changed my mind? Sweetheart, I broke three traffic laws trying to get here. The cop gave me a warning because he’s a fan, but I—” He stops, his eyes searching mine. “Why would you think I wouldn’t show up?”
Heat pricks at the backs of my eyes, but I keep my composure. “You didn’t text.”
“I was trying not to crash my car.” He steps in close, and I’m engulfed in the scent of his body wash with a hint of that cold arena ice smell. “And avoiding calls from Sloane.”
I grimace because yeah, that will not be a fun conversation for him.
He crosses the threshold like a man on a mission, which at least confirms he’s not a vampire, and shuts the door behind him with a definitive click.
“Do you actually want this?” I find myself asking, voice shaky. “It’s not because you’re pissed about Gigi or wound up from the game?”
My pulse throbs in my throat. If he says it is… I’ll survive, but it’ll suck. Big time.
He angles in, the need in his eyes desperate. Then my hand is enveloped in his. He places my palm over his crotch, the zipper straining against his hardness, and a burst of heat rushes through me.
“You feel this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and raw.
I nod becausedamn—thank God I got the XL condoms.
