Chapter 19
Nineteen
KAI
I can barely breathe.
I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.
“Stop!” I beg Bass, but he doesn’t listen or doesn’t care that I’m gasping for breath as he relentlessly tickles me beneath my ribcage. “I swear I’m going to kill you–”
At this point, I’ve resorted to threatening him while screaming for my life. He’s tickling me until I beg for mercy, then alternates the torture by taking one of my nipples inside his mouth while sliding two of his thick fingers inside of me.
I’m mad as hell and hotter than July. I don’t know whether to cry or come.
“Morelli, are you killing my roommate?” Sue asks with concern from the other side of the door.
“Yep,” the bastard replies.
“And why the hell are you doing that?” Sue demands a little too playfully, if you ask me. For all she knows, I’m dying in here. If the roles were reversed, I’d kick the door down.
“She refuses to answer my question. This is her punishment.”
“Death?” Sue responds. “Just let her breathe, Morelli, or I’m going to have to get in the middle of this, and I’d rather get back to baking my peach pie.”
His hands still, probably a Pavlovian response to the mention of pie. My roomie is a damn good cook, but her baked goods are exceptionally delicious and probably half the reason why Bass keeps dropping by here.
But whatever the reason he stops, I’m just grateful I can breathe again.
“I stopped,” he says loud enough for Sue to hear. “For now,” he says under his breath.
“Good. I don’t understand why y’all won’t take this lover shit to your apartment once in a while,” she mutters, and Bass’s eyes immediately meet mine.
“Exactly,” he agrees with a stern look on his face. “We could be doing all of this in my bed instead of yours for once.”
“Do I need to remind you that I hate being tickled, asshole?”
“But you love being finger fucked.”
“Would you lower your damn voice?” I fume, then search the floor for my panties that he yanked off ten minutes ago.
“You look so fucking hot when you’re angry, Vega.”
“How would you know when you keep staring at my tits?”
It’s a strange feeling how the weight of Bass’s heated stare makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. It shouldn’t matter so much or affect me so deeply, but it does.
It always does.
“You’re avoiding my earlier question,” he says.
“It wasn’t a question.”
“Stop stalling.”
“Bass–”
“You’ve conveniently been too busy to come by the ice house lately. Why? What am I missing? I need an answer. One that makes sense.”
“Um, do I really need to come by there anymore? I think you and I both can agree that I’ve performed a miracle and made you look like the poster child for the NHL in a matter of weeks. So, job well done, right?”
“Our arrangement isn’t over, Vega. We made a deal.”
“And I’ve gotten the work done and been coming to all your home games. I’ve been sticking to our deal.”
“But I want you at the house.”
“For what?”
I can see his frustration growing, but how can I tell him the truth? How can I say that I’m second-guessing this entire arrangement because I can’t stand to watch him around all the puck bunnies at the ice house?
I mean, it’s not the craziest thing in the world for me to feel like this, is it?
Regardless of whether people know or not, we’re sleeping together.
We’re having sex. Of course, it bothers me to watch girls in booty shorts and bralettes, prance around the ice house like they live there–especially Gia.
She moves around that place like she pays rent, and Bass is her landlord with benefits.
He scrubs his face with the enormous palm of his hand, completely aggravated with the direction of this conversation. I feel bad, but I’m not ready to tell him the truth.
“Get dressed,” he suddenly demands. “Let’s just go get something to eat.”
“But–”
“But what, Kai?”
Damn, I know he’s pissed whenever he uses my first name.
“I’m just wondering where you wanted to go eat.”
“No, you’re wondering if people are going to see us wherever I choose for us to go eat. I’m a hockey star in this town, Kai. People are going to notice us.”
“Would you stop?” I roll my eyes. “I’ve told you a million times about calling yourself a hockey star. It’s beyond arrogant.”
Albeit true.
“And so what if they notice us together?” he continues, trying to push me towards an argument. “Are you embarrassed or something?”
“You’re making a problem where there isn’t one,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, but I can tell he doesn’t love my response. I’m starting to understand his body language well, and right now his body is telling me to leave this topic alone.
Bass doesn’t push again, and I’m grateful. Instead, he tosses me his oversized VCU hoodie—soft, black, and still warm from his body—and says, “Put this on. It’s late.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s 75 degrees out.”
“Exactly. Prime hoodie weather.”
I hesitate, then pull it over my head. People will know it’s not mine; his last name is on the back of it, and a part of me delights in that.
The sweatshirt drapes over me like a blanket, swallowing me in his scent—clean laundry and the kind of cologne that smells expensive and addictive. I hate how much I love it.
He watches me too long before grabbing his keys. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before I rip that back off of you.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at a neon-lit taco stand on Fremont Street, the kind of place that only locals hit up after dark.
We slide into a plastic booth under a buzzing red sign, the city alive around us—tourists weaving through crowds, performers dancing for tips, the electric pulse of Vegas everywhere. No VCU students I recognize in sight.
Bass orders two carne asada burritos and a horchata like he’s been coming here his whole life.
I go for two shrimp tacos and a watermelon agua fresca.
The booth is sticky, the fan above us rattles like it’s threatening to fall, but it feels real.
Like something outside our carefully managed dynamic.
Like a date.
The food arrives fast, and we dig in without much conversation. It’s kind of nice. There’s no need to fill up the space with words. Instead, we eat, side by side, watching people pass like they’re part of some movie neither of us wants to leave.
“You always come here?” I finally ask between bites.
He nods. “Some nights. After practice. When I need to think.”
“What do you think about?”
He glances at me, his hypnotic eyes dark under the flickering neon.
“Lately? Only you.”