Page 28 of Hard to Handle

“Yes,” I reiterate. “You’re reaching.”

“So then why not give in to what we both want?”

My mouth is as dry as his eyes are intense. “What’s that?” I barely get out.

The groan he emits might as well be for both of us because it rumbles in the space between us. “Shall we finish what we started last night?”

“I told you, we’re not sleeping together. Things have changed. I’ve changed from who I was three years ago.”

“You may have changed but the chemistry is still the same. Time didn’t put a damper on the want.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” I take a step back only to bump against the wall. Of course, it’s there, because why wouldn’t it be, right?

“I am? Because I mean, if you’re not here to try and steal me from Sanderson, then there would be no reason for us not to walk down memory lane.”

“You mean sleep down memory lane?” I ask.

“There’s that smile.”

Shit. Don’t do that, Hunter. Don’t be playful. Don’t be charming. Don’t be nice.

“While this has been amusing—”

“There’s that word again.”

I sigh in exasperation. “I have work to get to.”

I expect Hunter to stop me—he’s a man who typically gets what he wants after all—but he doesn’t, so I walk down the hall toward the visitor’s section in the bowels of the arena.

“One thing, Dekk.”

“Yeah?” I turn to face him. He’s standing in the opening, the rink at his back, his stick in one hand, and the smug expression on his face fitting perfectly. If I could take a picture, the image would be him to a tee.

“Why’d you come this morning? If it wasn’t to steal me or fuck me . . . why waste the trip?”

Shit.

“I told you, I’m traveling with the team for the next stretch.”

“That didn’t answer my question of why you came looking for me.”

Bastard. He wants an answer? All right.

I walk back toward him and stop as he strips his shirt over his head. Where there would normally be an undershirt and pads, there is nothing but skin. Defined, sculpted muscles beneath his olive-toned skin with a tattoo on one shoulder and a war story of scars on the rest.

Scars I’ve traced with my fingers. Tattoos I’ve nipped with my teeth.

When I drag my eyes away from the sight in front of me, I’m met with a raised eyebrow and that damn amusement again painting every single muscle of his face.

Definitely a bastard toying with me.

“I wanted to come here and thank you.”

“We’ve talked all this time and those words haven’t graced your lips so I doubt that’s the reason.”

“No. Maysen was here. I was thrown with the beer bottle,” I fumble.

“Beer bottle is in the trash. Maysen is gone.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises his eyebrows. “What did you want to thank me for?”