… the moans started up once more.
Fuck.
I knocked again, more forcefully this time. Blessed silence, then the sound of shuffling.
The door opened and I was confronted—rather aggressively, I thought—with chest. Perfect, smooth, muscled chest. I dragged my gaze away from the muscles and lifted it to the face for a more thorough inventory.
I knew it well. Alexei Nazarov was the topic of conversation for the last month as soon as everyone heard he was transferring in because he had a hard-on for Coach Starkey.
Now, if I was any other hetero-girl at the University of Michigan, I would probably be screaming my head off now. Or simpering like a bunny.
But I was not any other girl. I was a tired, needs-her-sleep, what-the-fuck-time-do-you-think-this-is girl, and I was not here for it. And by “it” I meant eyes as cool as a Siberian winter, finger-raked dark blond locks, and a pair of far-too-thin sweatpants barely covering the evidence of what was happening before I knocked.
I had a million questions starting with, “why are you in Macca’s room?” and ending with, “are you really that good?” Because the way that girl was moaning, this guy was delivering a performance worthy of Olympic gold.
“Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m not even going to ask why you’re here because I assume Isner is to blame, and I will be taking it up with him later. But for now, I need you to make that girl come, then shut the fuck up and let this girl sleep.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. Boo. “You are sleeping here?” He looked over my shoulder as if expecting someone else.
“The point is I’m not sleeping. You’re making too much noise.”
“Not me. But …” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “It is out of my hands.”
“I think it’s very much within your hands. As in, use them wisely and let’s all catch some Z’s.”
“Alexei, come back to bed.”
Nazarov’s lips twitched. “She is greedy, yes? Perhaps, it would go quicker if we had a third person.”
Hockey bros, the absolute worst.
“You’re on your own, dude. Just keep it down, ’kay?”
At which point he cast a glance down to the crotch area of his sweatpants, the contents of which had been “resting” before but were now displaying signs of a resurgence.
“I will try but …”
“Blah blah, dick joke. I’ve heard them all, Russian.” I turned to leave, realizing now that I would not be comfortable waiting on the other side of the wall for that happy ending. A cup of Chamomile tea and a crime podcast would be the better option right now.
I didn’t look over my shoulder as I moved away in my bunny slippers. But I could feel the heat of his gaze on my back—and I suspected sleep would be a long time coming.
About ten minutes later, the door of the apartment closed. Finally. I placed my cup in the sink and turned at the soft pad of footsteps.
Nazarov stood in bare feet at the door to the kitchen, his chest covered with a T-shirt that said “I like hockey and three other people.” My brother-in-law Gunnar had one, and it had once amused me to no end.
“I thought you’d left.”
“Just my guest. She is in a cab.”
I was going to kill Jason. “Well, technically, she’s my guest because you don’t live here.”
“This is true. Thank you for hosting me and …” He lifted one massive shoulder in the tiniest of shrugs.
“Respect through the roof, I see. Her name was probably ‘baby.’” I raised a hand before he could comment. “Actually, that was your name.”
He ignored my observation. “May I have a glass of water?”
