When I finally pull back, Cole’s eyes are dark and intense, and I can see my own want reflected in them.
The air between us is charged. I'm hyperaware of everything. The sound of his breathing, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the heat radiating from his body. My gaze drops to his lips, and his does the same.
We're going to kiss. I want us to kiss. But some tiny corner of my brain that isn't affected by champagne and lust manages to assert itself.
I step back abruptly, my hands shaking slightly. “I need a shower to wash off the day.”
Cole nods, his own breathing a little uneven. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
The shower spray is hot enough to steam up the entire bathroom, but it doesn't cool the fire Cole has lit under my skin. I try to focus on washing my hair, but my body has other ideas.
The hot water sluices over my skin, and I let my hands follow its path, imagining they’re his. My palms slide over my breasts, and I pinch my nipples, pretending it’s his calloused fingers making me gasp.
My other hand drifts lower, over the curve of my stomach, and I remember his possessive grip on my waist, the demanding pressure of his mouth.
My breath comes faster, coming in ragged little pants that echo off the shower tiles. My fingers slide between my legs, finding my swollen, throbbing clit.
I’m already achingly sensitive, and a moan escapes me as I circle that tight bundle of nerves, the pressure building instantly.
I bite my lip as I picture him here, his hard body pressing me against the cool tiles. I imagine it’s his touch, his fingers sliding inside me, stretching me, finding that perfect, deep rhythm that makes me see stars.
My hips buck against my own hand, chasing the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in my core. My back arches, a silent scream building in my throat as the tension shatters, waves of pleasure crashing through me so intensely my knees nearly buckle.
The orgasm is intense and satisfying, but it only makes me want the real thing more.
I take a few minutes to get my breathing back to normal, then finish my shower. By the time I'm dressed in leggings and anoversized sweater, the champagne buzz has faded enough that I can trust myself to have dinner with Cole without jumping him.
I find him in the dining room, setting out plates and wine glasses. He's removed the apron, which is honestly a shame.
“You looked better with the apron,” I tease, settling into the chair across from him. “Very professional chef meets professional athlete.”
He snorts. “Glad I could provide entertainment.”
As I sit down, I'm grateful that he has no idea what I was doing in the shower just minutes ago. He'd probably be disgusted if he knew I was fantasizing about him while touching myself. The thought makes heat creep up my neck, and I quickly reach for my wine glass to cover my embarrassment.
Cole makes me a plate, and it looks delicious. He watches as I take a bite, and I have to fight back a groan. It’s so good. The risotto is creamy, and the chicken tender and flavorful. “This is incredible,” I say, taking another bite. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My mom insisted that I learn.” He shrugs. “Plus, it's relaxing.”
We're halfway through dinner when my phone rings. I glance at the screen and sigh. “I'm sorry, it's my mother. If I don't answer, she'll keep calling.”
Cole nods, and I swipe to accept the call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Harper, sweetheart. How are you? Your father and I were just talking about you kids. Did you see that article in Sports Illustrated about Brett’s training regimen?”
I haven't, but I make appropriate noises while my mother launches into a detailed recap of Brett's preseason interviews. She talks about his new contract, his endorsement deals, and his chances of making the All-Star team.
“That's great, Mom. Actually, I have some news too?—”
“Oh, that reminds me. Brett mentioned he might be coming to New York for a game soon. You two should have dinner.”
Why do I even bother?
“Your brother works so hard. Sometimes I worry he's pushing himself too much, but you know how dedicated he is. Remember when he was twelve and he'd practice shooting pucks until it was too dark to see?”
The conversation continues like this for another ten minutes, with me attempting to share my news and my mother redirecting everything back to Brett. By the time I hang up, I'm deflated despite the earlier triumph.
