Something shifted behind his eyes at that. He stared at me for a long moment, and I could almost hear thought forming, something important crystallizing.
Then he shook it off, and his expression returned to uncertainty.
“Should I . . . Do you want me to . . .” He gestured toward my lap with the awkward energy of a man trying to offer directions in a country whose language he didn’t speak. “I mean, you didn’t . . . I should take care of you, right? That’s how this works? I mean, isn’t it?”
His innocent earnestness nearly killed me.
“Sky.” I reached up and took his hand. “This was about you,yourfirst time. I’m happy it was with me.”
“But that’s not fair—”
“Trust me, nothing about the last twenty minutes was unfair to me.” I squeezed his hand. “There’s no scoreboard. This isn’t hockey or football.”
“Everything is hockey.”
“Not this.” I let my lips curl but was careful to remain serious. He needed to know I meant what I said, that none of this was a joke.
He looked like he wanted to argue, but I tugged him down and kissed him softly, enough to short-circuit whatever protest was forming. When I pulled back, the tension in his shoulders had eased.
“Okay,” he said. “But next time—”
“Next time you can do whatever you want.”
The words hung between us like a promise.
He smiled in his boyish way.
I couldn’t bite back my own.
And then we both became aware that he was still very much naked and standing in a living room that looked like a Thai food crime scene.
“We should probably deal with . . .” I gestured at the devastation surrounding us. Takeout containers, scattered plates, thepad Thaismeared across the floor, and Skyler’s sauce-soaked clothes in a heapnearby.
“Right. Yeah. Clothes.” He looked down at himself as though just remembering his situation. “I should, uh . . . laundry.”
“Laundry,” I agreed.
He gathered his clothes at arm’s length, sauce dripping onto the hardwood in a trail that would’ve made a forensic investigator weep, and padded down a short hallway to a small laundry room tucked between the bathroom and bedroom, his bare feet slapping against the wood.
Watching a naked NHL captain load a washing machine was not something I’d ever seen on my bingo card, and yet there I was, leaning against the doorframe, committing every detail to memory: the way his back muscles shifted as he bent to shove clothes into the drum, the tan line across his hips, the unselfconscious way he moved, like he’d forgotten he was naked—or maybe didn’t care anymore. The sight of his round, firm ass with that dimple on the side nearly had me reaching for him, but he straightened before my lusty thought could form into action.
“Enjoying the show?” he asked without turning around.
“Best show ever. Should win an Oscar or Tony or whatever they give naked man shows.”
He laughed and disappeared into the bedroom, returning thirty seconds later in a pair of silky black shorts and a fitted white T-shirt that clung to every line of his torso.
Fuck me, this was even worse than watching him naked.
Or maybe it was better.
Yeah, definitely better.
The shorts sat low on his hips, the silky fabric draping in ways that left very little to the imagination. And his T-shirt—God, I wanted tobethat T-shirt—was thin and soft and probably cost all of four dollars. It hugged his chest and arms like it had been tailored by someone who understood the precise geometry of Skyler Shaw’s shoulders and how best to make everyone around him drool.
“What?” he said, catching my expression.
“Nothing. Just . . . that outfit really, um, fits. Like really, really well.”
