Chapter 20 #2
It is sweltering in here, though. Even with my shirt off, I’m sweating, and this time, it has nothing to do with exertion from the game. I’m burning up, and it’s all her.
Bex shines a penlight into my eyes, then tests my balance. Standing and walking on skates is almost as natural as barefoot, and I pass the exam with flying colors. She holds up flashcards and I recite the pictures, then read the words.
But then—she steps close, so close, and I inhale that orange-blossom scent clinging to her skin. My heart beats so fast I grow dizzy. Her hands come up to cradle my head, and my eyes flutter closed. My entire body hums at her nearness.
Her fingers slide into my sweaty hair, and I try to pretend she’s doing this because she wants to hold me, like she cares about me, and not simply looking for a contusion or a skull fracture. That this means more than it does.
And to my horror, my cock reacts. The cup I’m wearing doesn’t restrict blood flow, but it is pretty damn uncomfortable. As much as I want to pretend it’s game-time adrenaline rushing through me, I know it’s her. It’s all because of her.
Minty-sweet breath puffs over my forehead as she palpates my skull.
I bow my head, my gaze trained on the floor so I don’t stare at the tantalizing swell of her breasts.
Her fingers brush over my nape, then lower to cup the base of my neck, and my skin erupts with goose bumps as a shiver runs down my spine, heat coiling deep in my gut.
I can’t stop the rumbling groan that vibrates through me.
She freezes.
My heart stops.
Time stands still.
Finally, she backs away. “I think that’s enough,” she pronounces. But her hand is still on the nape of my neck. After a second, she moves to pull back.
My hand darts out to hold her to me, my fingers closing around her wrist. I force my eyes to meet hers, the professional mask I expect to find discarded.
In its place, her expression is clear, open.
Vulnerable. Her mouth opens, but no words come out.
Though her chest rises and falls with a shaky inhalation.
“Bex…”
“Dr. Whitney.”
I shake my head. “You’re Bex to me.”
“In this room—”
“Not to me.”
Her hand sears into my neck like a brand, like she’s claiming me. Like she owns me.
Because she already does.
Her gaze trails over my face, then lower—over my shoulders, my chest, my abs. Frank appreciation creases her face, and her pink tongue sneaks out to wet her crimson-painted lips.
I clear my throat, ready to get this over with. There are still a few minutes left in the period. If she okays me, I can get back out there.
And then she’s stepping closer, between my spread knees. I open them wider, welcoming her in. My entire body thrums with anticipation. I will never say no to being near her.
Even though I should. Every fiber of my being is yelling at me, telling me this is a horrible idea. But I can’t stop this. I don’t want to.
Bex cards her hand through my hair, then tugs, the sharp stinging on my scalp so fucking hot it’s as if they turned up the heat in the arena another ten thousand degrees. Her right palm lands on my chest, directly over my pounding heart.
For a beat, neither of us moves. We just…
breathe. Her breath fans across my jaw—warm, shaky, angry at itself—and the air between us turns thick enough to drown in.
I can smell her shampoo again, that faint citrus-and-something-sweeter that haunts me, and it hits me like a goddamn sucker punch.
She’s close enough that her eyelashes brush my cheek when she blinks.
Close enough I feel the tremble running through her fingers even as she tries to hide it by pressing harder against my chest.
She looks up at me—really looks—like she’s searching for a reason to stop and can’t find one.
My pulse spikes beneath her hand, giving me away.
Her gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers. Every one of my muscles goes taut, waiting, wanting, bracing for the moment she comes to her senses and shoves me away instead.
But she doesn’t.
She surges up on her toes and her lips crash into mine, hot and impatient, like she’s been starving for this and hates herself for it.
The first brush of her mouth steals the breath right out of my lungs.
Her lips are soft but demanding, moving against mine with a fierceness that borders on punishment.
Every inhale tastes like her—mint, the faint sweetness of the Coke she drank earlier, the sharp edge of adrenaline.
Her tongue slides against mine and I swear I feel it everywhere—down my spine, in the tight curl of want low in my gut, in the way my knees would buckle if I weren’t sitting down.
Then her nails scrape my scalp as she tugs my hair again, and the sting blooms into heat that shoots straight through me.
I grip her waist, fingers digging in, pulling her flush against me so I can feel every quick, uneven inhale she takes.
Her body fits against mine like it was always meant to, even though we both know it shouldn’t.
A sound rips out of me—a low, helpless moan—and the moment it leaves my throat, the spell shatters.
Her whole body jolts at the noise, as if she didn’t expect me to enjoy this—enjoy her—quite that much. She tears her mouth from mine, her breath shuddering against my cheek. For a second, we’re still close enough that I can feel the tremor running through her.
I don’t let her go. Not yet. Instead, I flex my fingers around her hips, holding her there because if she steps back, if she puts even an inch of space between us, I’m afraid the cold will rush in and swallow everything we just ignited.
“What did you just do?” she whispers, voice scraped raw. But she doesn’t pull away. Her nails stay curled in my hair, anchoring me to her like she hates that she wants to.
I drag my gaze down to her kiss-swollen lips, then back to her eyes—stormy, furious, wanting. “You kissed me,” I say, quieter than I intend. “Don’t blame me for kissing you back.”
“We can’t,” she pants.
“Okay.”
“You’re clear to play. You don’t have a concussion.”
And then the buzzer echoes through the building.
The game is over.
I’m screwed.