23
. . .
Drew
Ishould text Will back and tell him not to show up at my door.
Dressed in a black version of the same nightwear I wore the last time he saw me in pajamas; I begin typing out a message to that effect.
Me
You can’t come to my suite. What if someone sees?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Just hit Send and be done with this whole game, Drew.
But ending whatever this is between you two isn’t what you want.
You want him in your room.
Your bed.
The whole damn night.
Four sharp knocks cause me to leap off the bed, throwing my phone behind me on the duvet. I march toward the white double doors of this ridiculously large—and no doubt overpriced—suite and yank on one of the handles.
“You’re awake.” Will knows precisely what he’s doing each time he throws me his trademark smirk.
Grabbing hold of his gray sweatshirt, I pull him into my suite and slam the door behind us.
“Did anyone see you?” I rush out, squinting through the peephole set in the center of the door.
No one is lingering out in the hallway.
“Drew.”
Two hands land on my hips, and slowly, they swivel me around until my back is flat against the door, and I’ve nowhere to go except into the large arms of a looming hockey player.
His sweatshirt is open at the collar with the zipper pulled down to reveal a small amount of dark chest hair I was so tempted to run my fingers through the last time we were this close.
Black dress pants sit just above his ankles with tan loafers I’m sure cost two months of my salary alone.
And then it hits me—the woodsy cologne I smell each time I rest my head on the pillow and think about what it would be like to go to bed with this guy.
“What, Will?” I gaze up at him and sigh. At this point, I’m more exhausted than anything else. And that’s all down to me and my determination to resist what I desperately want.
Him.
Like the uber-confident guy he is, Will doesn’t take my exasperated tone personally. If anything, there’s only understanding and patience in his expression when he leans down and whispers in my ear, “I want to sleep with you, and I don’t think I have it in me to walk away without showing you how fucking amazing my hands can make you feel.”
I rest a palm in the center of his chest. As I suspected, his heart is beating at a wild pace. “And when tomorrow rolls around?”
He wraps his fingers around my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing the end of my fingertips in turn. The move is romantic and not what I expected from him.
“Why don’t we just enjoy tonight and let tomorrow look after itself?”
“Is that what you tell all of them?” I mumble beneath my breath. It’s probably a little unfair, but if I’m going to be another one of his conquests, then I might as well be clear on where I stand.
