Icing on the Cake (The Barracudas #1)

Chapter 4

4

ELLIOT

“ W ho was that girl?” Gerard asks when we step into the elevator, and the doors close, trapping us inside.

“That…was Sarah. She works here.”

“I got that. Is she a friend?”

I decide not to answer that question. Had he asked me yesterday, I’d have said yes. But now, because she meddled when she had no business doing so, the magic eight ball says to ask again later.

“Girlfriend?” Gerard squeaks out when the silence becomes too much.

I realize neither of us pressed the button for the third floor, and I ignore him as I contemplate if I can reach the button without brushing against him in the process.

The elevator is small, and Gerard seems to occupy every inch. Heat radiates from his body, and the subtle scent of his cologne—musky with a hint of icy mint—makes my head spin.

I’m not blind. Gerard’s a very handsome man. I’ve seen girls fawn over him, guys idolize him, and teachers bow down to him like he’s the second coming of Jesus.

But that doesn’t mean that I want anything to do with him today. I’ve already spent time with one jock; I don’t need to do it again.

“Relative?” Gerard asks when I still haven’t answered him.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, I simply say, “Coworker.”

I don’t define the stumped expression on his face as adorable. I really don’t.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are.”

“Right. And you are?—”

“Elliot. The librarian.”

“Right. So, how long have you worked here, Elliot the Librarian?”

I guess Gerard wants to make small talk. Little does he know it’s one of the things I hate, along with jocks who aren’t Jackson.

Peering up at him through my lashes, I’m shocked he’s trying to make eye contact with me. Most jocks that take a ride in the elevator with me spend their time checking out their reflection in the shiny metal doors.

“This will be my third year.”

“Wow.” His eyes widen imperceptibly. “You’re a junior, then?”

“Yes.”

“Sweet. Me?—”

“I know.”

“Right.” His brow furrows as he thinks of something else to ask. I pray he doesn’t, but God doesn’t hear me. No surprise there. “What’s your favorite part of the job?”

“When it’s quiet.” There’s an edge to my tone, and I hope he takes the hint and shuts up.

“Is it not?”

“Usually, it is. But on a day like today…”

“What’s today?”

My eyebrows shoot into my hair as I throw my head back to look up at him. “You’re kidding me, right? ”

“No?” He scratches his head with his index finger, and again, I don’t define it as adorable.

“The season opener? The one you’re playing in?”

“Oh, right!” His cheeks turn ruby red. “That is if I can find my dang hockey stick.”

Dang? What college student purposely censors themselves?

“Which brings me to a question of my own. How do you misplace a hockey stick? Aren’t those things big and long?”

His cheeks redden, and I have no clue why.

“Y-yes. Hockey sticks aren’t tiny. But I tend to be forgetful. Especially if other things are on my mind.”

“And last night, your mind was on…what?”

“Honestly? I can’t remember.”

The elevator stops on the third floor, and the bell rings louder than it should, making me wince.

“You okay?” Gerard asks, clearly still watching me.

“I think I have a migraine coming on.”

“Ouch. I’ve had those before. They suck.”

“Tell me about it.”

The doors slide open, and I step out, inhaling deeply now that I’m not squished into a tiny box with a massive hockey player.

Gerard steps up beside me and places his hands on his hips. The action oozes masculinity, and I avert my gaze before I make a fool of myself and start drooling.

Some people have foot fetishes. Others have muscle fetishes. I, Elliot Jerome Montgomery, have a hand fetish. And Gerard’s hands are the size of my head.

I can’t tell you when I first realized I had a thing for hands. One day, I was beating my meat to a video where this one guy was gripping another guy’s waist, and I blew my load like Mount Vesuvius.

Nobody knows about it. Not Sarah. Not Jackson. Not even my high school ex.

“Alright. Lead the way, Elliot.” He gestures forward with his right hand, and it takes all my willpower not to grab it. Feel it. Remember it.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath before trudging forth.

The layout on each floor is deliberately confusing. It’s designed to make you lose yourself in the stacks—literally and figuratively. Study nooks are carved out of the walls with desks and lamps, like something out of an academic fairy tale. And plush chairs are scattered about for those who are claustrophobic.

I lead Gerard down a winding path toward the horror section. He follows closely, his footsteps heavy on the thin carpet. His presence looms over me, not unlike a friendly giant unsure of how to interact with the villagers.

“We shelve things by genre up here,” I explain, more to fill the silence than because I think he needs to know. “Fiction takes up most of this floor. Non-fiction is downstairs on the second.”

Gerard nods. “Cool. I don’t read much fiction.”

Of course, he doesn’t. I imagine his nights are filled with ESPN and protein shakes. Not novels.

As we turn a corner, I glance back at him. “What do you read when you do?”

“Textbooks, mostly.” He shrugs. “Whatever I need for class.”

That figures. However, to be fair, most college students are in the same boat. Finding time for pleasure reading is hard when you’re drowning in assignments.

We arrive at the horror section, and I scan the shelves for any sign of a misplaced hockey stick. Nothing jumps out at me.

“I thought your coworker said it was here,” Gerard whines, sounding more puzzled than accusatory.

“She said maybe here. Someone probably moved it.” I start walking toward the tables at the far end of the floor.

As we weave through more stacks, my mind drifts to the romance section we just passed. The spines of those books are like old friends to me. Jackson always makes fun of me for reading them—calls me a housewife-in-training—but they’re what give me hope.

Hope that one day I’ll have a steamy romance of my own, complete with passionate kisses in the rain and heartfelt confessions during sunset walks on the beach.

We reach the tables, and I ask the student worker spraying Lysol over everything if anyone turned in a hockey stick. She shakes her head.

“Looks like you’re out of luck,” I tell Gerard.

“Dang,” he says again. Seriously. Who is this guy?

I walk toward the elevator, assuming our business is done, but Gerard lingers. “You never said if you’re into hockey.”

“I watch enough to keep up with Jackson.” I lie because he doesn’t need to know the truth. “He’s obsessed.” I’m obsessed.

“Jackson Monroe?” Gerard’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You know him?”

“No, not personally. But I’ve been to a few football games. The dude has a killer arm.”

“That he does.”

Jackson has been the star of our college team since his freshman year, and now that we’re juniors, scouts are starting to notice. He’s even been getting emails and letters from NFL teams expressing interest in signing him.

He downplays it all, but I know he’s thrilled. He’s worked so hard to get to this point, and I hope with everything in me that he makes it.

“That guy is going places,” Gerard says, still grinning.

I nod. “Yeah. He is.”

An awkward silence settles over us. I’m not sure what else to say to this giant ray of sunshine who seems determined to make small talk with me. I want to ask him why he’s suddenly so interested in my life, but I fear the answer.

“Can I use the restroom before I go?” Gerard asks, breaking the silence.

I shrug. “It’s a public library.”

“Right.” He bounds toward the restrooms, puts his hand on the door, and turns back to me. “I really appreciate your help, Elliot.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He disappears into the restroom, and I war with myself on whether I should head back down to the circulation desk or wait to see if he’ll come back out and try to chat some more.

“My stick!”

For a split second, my mind goes somewhere dirty. But then, it dawns on me, and my eyes roll so hard that they nearly fall out of my head.

Gerard bursts out of the restroom and waves his hockey stick the way King Arthur brandishes Excalibur. His face is beaming, and I fight the smile that threatens to break out across mine.

“Can you believe it? I left it in here!”

“Imagine that,” I deadpan.

He jogs over to me, and I brace myself for whatever comes next. A high-five. A bro-hug. A boop on the nose.

Thankfully, he stops short and smiles down at me. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing.” Although that earlier deal sounded sweet, I don’t think I could ever take him up on it. What could I ever possibly want or need from Gunnarson the Great?

“No, seriously. Thank you.” He hesitates, then adds, “Will I see you tonight? At the game?”

“We’ll see.” I don’t dare tell him yes. Can’t have him thinking we’re suddenly best friends who will gossip and braid each other’s hair. He would make a pretty boy with his curls all done up, though.

His smile falters for a brief moment before coming back full force. “Take care, Elliot.”

I watch Gerard walk away, and my eyes are immediately drawn to his ass. His hockey butt stretches the thin material of his athletic shorts to their limit. As he takes his first step down to the second floor, his cheeks quiver like two enormous bowls of jello being carried by a clumsy waiter .

I’d give an arm and a leg to bury my face between those massive cheeks, feel their weight on either side of my head, and inhale his musky scent.

I’d bet my life’s savings that under all those bulging muscles and bravado, he’s secretly aching to be pinned down and tongue-fucked into oblivion.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be the one to introduce him to that pleasure. I’d start slow, teasing him through his shorts with gentle strokes and nips before revealing the untouched skin of his perfect glutes.

He’d shiver under my touch as my fingers trail along the cleft of his ass. Goosebumps would pebble his flesh as my breath coasted over him.

Unable to resist any longer, I’d dive in face-first, parting those juicy cheeks and dragging the flat of my tongue from his perineum up to his tailbone. He’d gasp and moan, overwhelmed by the foreign yet electrifying sensation.

I’d do it repeatedly, lapping at him like he was my favorite ice cream flavor.

Once he’s slick with my spit, I’d stiffen my tongue and zero in on his fluttering pink hole. I’d trace tight circles around the furled muscle, coaxing it to relax and let me in. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be loose and pliant enough for me to spear my tongue past that resistant ring and plunge into his scorching heat.

I’d tongue-fuck him deep and filthy, holding his cheeks open wide so I could get as far inside him as possible. He’d be a wreck above me, hands scrabbling for purchase, thighs trembling, broken pleas tumbling from his lips.

I’d keep going until he sobs from the intensity. Until he can’t take it anymore and explodes untouched all over the library carpet.

Fuck. I adjust myself in my jeans, trying to will away my arousal. The last thing I need is to be caught with a boner in the middle of the stacks. Especially a boner for Gerard goddamn Gunnarson .

No matter how delectable his ass looks in those shorts, no matter how much I want to eat him out until he cries, I can’t let myself go there.

He’s straight, and more importantly, he’s a jock. Guys like him don’t go for guys like me.

“Bro! You talked to Gerard Gunnarson?” Jackson stares dumbfounded from the bench press.

I drag my eyes over to him and choke on my saliva when I realize how much weight he’s lifting. “Damn, Jackson. Can Arnold Schwarzenegger even lift that much?”

Jackson snaps his fingers in my face to bring my attention back to him. “Elliot. Gerard. You talked to him?”

“Yes, Jackson.” I roll my eyes, which is something I seem to be doing a lot of today. “And no, we didn’t talk about you—wait. Actually, we did.”

“What?!” Jackson squeals, shooting to his feet and eliciting curious stares from the other gym rats, who are a specific breed of student.

They wear cut-off tanks and compression shorts, and their skin is perpetually sheened with sweat. Veins pop like overfilled water balloons, and their necks have all but disappeared into their traps. They communicate in grunts and the occasional bro-speak, a language Jackson has become fluent in.

I, on the other hand, am completely out of my element here. My wiry frame and bird-like limbs make me look like a stick figure someone’s plopped into a Renaissance painting. I’m dressed in my usual workout attire: an oversized BSU sweatshirt and track pants that do nothing to hide my lack of muscle.

Jackson knows better than to ask me to lift with him. The one time I tried, I couldn’t manage more than a five-pound dumbbell without my arms giving out like wet noodles. Instead, I usually just watch him work out and read whatever book I’ve got on hand.

Today, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray . I’m halfway through the chapter where Dorian starts his downward spiral when Jackson interrupts with more of his squealing.

“Calm down,” I hiss, stuffing the book into my tote bag. “All he said was that he’s been to a few of your games and knows that you have a killer arm.”

Jackson’s eyes glaze over as if he’s replaying every moment he’s spent on the football field, searching for the exact times Gerard might have been there. “He talked about my killer arm?”

“Yep. Congratulations. You’re famous.”

Jackson flops back onto the bench with a dopey grin plastered on his face. “Wait. Why was Gerard talking to you anyway?”

I ignore the way that it sounds like Gerard wouldn’t be caught dead talking to me without a reason because that couldn’t be farther from the truth. “He lost his hockey stick and came to the library looking for it.”

“And you helped him find it,” Jackson states as if it’s an undeniable fact of nature, such as gravity or the anabolic window.

“I had nothing better to do.”

“Sure.” Jackson starts loading plates onto the barbell, far more than any human should be able to lift without mechanical assistance. “We’re still on for the game tonight, right?”

I hesitate. “Maybe.”

“Elliot.” Jackson gives me a stern look. One that’s comically serious, considering it’s coming from someone who usually radiates goofiness. “You said you would. I know you love watching them play, even if you never admit it.”

He’s right, of course. Watching hockey is one of the few concessions I’ve made to jock culture. But what Jackson doesn’t know is that I love watching it because there’s something erotic about the speed and violence of the sport.

Seeing beefy college guys get slammed into the boards, pull off their helmets after the game, and have blood and sweat dripping down their faces does something to me.

Sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I imagine myself in the thick of it. Not as a player—because who are we kidding? I’d last all of two seconds on the ice—but as some kind of perverse athletic trainer.

I’d have my little first aid kit filled with gauze and antiseptic, dabbing at split lips and swollen eyes. My hands would linger longer than necessary, feeling the heat of their exertion radiate through their skin.

In my fantasy, they’re grateful for my attention, but it’s not enough to be healed. They need an outlet for their pent-up aggression, and I’m all too willing to oblige.

One by one, they’d take turns roughing me up in the locker room—throwing me against the lockers, delivering body checks that rattle my bones. I’d go home every night with a new constellation of bruises, each one a souvenir from a different player.

I know it’s twisted, but the pain would make me feel alive .

But now that I’ve met one of the Fearless Foursome, that changes things.

“Earth to Elliot.” Jackson waves a hand in front of my face. “You totally zoned out. Were you thinking about Gerard?”

“No,” I lie. “I was thinking about whether I have time to finish my statistics homework before the game.”

Jackson shrugs. “You’re a nerd. You’ll get it done in like ten minutes.”

Again, he’s right. Most of my coursework is laughably easy at this point, which leaves me with an abundance of free time that I usually spend reading or brooding—or, as of today, fantasizing about Gerard Gunnarson’s ass.

“You know what? Fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the second migraine of the day. “I’ll go to the game.”

“Yes!” Jackson pumps a fist in the air. “It’ll be awesome to see Gerard in action after you guys bonded.”

“We didn’t bond. ”

“Whatever you say.” Jackson starts his next set, grunting with each rep. “Maybe you can ask him for a favor,” he says between lifts.

“What kind of favor?”

“Like…getting me an autograph or something.”

I snort. “You realize you’re just as much of a big deal as he is, right? Maybe even more, considering college football is seen on national television more than college hockey.”

Jackson finishes his set and sits up to wipe sweat from his brow with a towel. “Yeah, but he’s been my idol since freshman year. It’d be weird if I just walked up to him and fangirled all over the place.”

“So, instead, you want me to fangirl for you? Makes total sense.”

Jackson flashes me that lopsided grin of his. “You’re the best, Elliot.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“But you will.” He stands and stretches out his arms, his torso elongating like a rubber band. “I’m gonna hit the showers. You coming?”

I glance at my tote bag, where Dorian Gray pokes out seductively. I didn’t lift a single weight, so I’m not sweaty. However, I’m going out tonight and want to smell my best.

“Alright. But you better not flash me your dick again.”

“Hey!” Jackson scowls, hands on his hips. “I didn’t flash you my dick. I slipped on the wet floor, my towel fell off, and my dick happened to pop out.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, ‘bro.’”

I grab my tote bag and take off for the showers, cackling like a hyena as Jackson chases after me when I tell him I’ve seen bigger.