Chapter 32
SO HARD TO SEE
REMY
I’m stuck outside in a storm. The wind whips around me. The clouds are angry. The rain pelts me everywhere.
I’ve just got to get inside, and I trudge to the door on heavy feet that barely move, trying to yank it open, when my eyes blink open.
Oh. I was just dreaming. It’s raining outside though, and wow, is it loud.
All I want is to go back to sleep but my eyes feel sticky from my mascara, a reminder that I forgot to wash my face.
I drag myself out of bed, squinting in the dark.
I stumble toward the bathroom door, which looks fuzzy without my glasses, but I can tell it’s ajar.
A yawn takes over me, as I push on the door the rest of the way open.
It’s so bright in here and so loud. What kind of monster would leave all the lights on in the bathroom?
In a flash, the rain stops. I yawn again, but something scratches at my brain as I fumble for the light to dim it.
It’s. Not. Raining.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
I don’t listen to the voice in my head. I turn to the shower, and I look right at the gorgeous hockey player as he slides open the steamy glass door and steps out.
Without glasses or contacts I can’t see objects that are far away, but I can see well enough up close, and right now the object is a very close, very wet, and very naked hockey player as he reaches for a towel from a nearby hook.
I make a sound. Something like a whimper.
I’ve seen him naked-ish. I’ve had his cock halfway down my throat, but I’ve never experienced the man in all his naked glory.
And even with my flawed vision, the man is still glorious.
Muscles for days, dark hair on his chest, and that impressive cock, half hard, with a drop of water sliding down it.
My mouth waters, and I should go. I really should go. “I…”
But have I ever spoken before? Do I even know how to make words? How to move my feet? They’re currently glued to the tile.
Lake doesn’t seem fazed. He’s amused as he lifts the towel and runs it over his hair. His hair! He doesn’t even attempt to cover up his birthday suit. Just lazily dries his locks with the white terrycloth as I stare at all of him, ink and skin and muscles.
“If I’d known you wanted to join, I wouldn’t have gotten out yet.”
The easy rasp. The hint of a tease. The cocky assurance.
It snaps me out of my six-foot-two naked hockey player haze.
“Sorry, I thought it was raining,” I blurt out, then spin around and hightail it out of the bathroom, and dive into the bed alone with my mortification.
And, unfortunately, my arousal.
I pull the duvet over my head, willing myself to fall asleep.
C’mon, brain.
I even bragged to him about being able to fall asleep fast. Now would be a really good time to show off that skill.
But nope, my overactive, overthinking, overeager brain is caught in a loop.
A loop of Lake with droplets sliding down his strong chest. Lake with a roguish smirk. Lake sporting all the confidence in the world.
Ugh.
I squeeze my eyes shut, failing miserably in my quest to nod off when the door creaks open.
Is he still naked? I don’t look. I can’t look. He caught me gawking at him shamelessly.
Footsteps pad across the carpet. The rustle of soft blankets floats past me. The mattress dips.
I try not to inhale him, but I catch the clean, soapy, masculine scent of him as I burrow under the covers, pretending to be asleep.
Breathing in, breathing out. My stomach flips again as I draw in the intoxicating smell of him.
I just love the scent of a clean man.
He says nothing, but I swear I can feel his satisfied grin burning a hole through the atmosphere right now.
He sighs, a big, loud one, chased by an even louder yawn. “I’m so tuckered out,” he says, like he’s muttering to himself.
Oh my god. The fucker is taunting me.
I dig in, keeping my body as still as possible under the duvet, my breathing as steady as if I were asleep.
“What a day,” he adds in another hearty sigh.
He shifts a little, then punches a pillow. Again and again.
“There. That’s better,” he says to his audience of one.
I grit my teeth, but I am committed to my role too.
“I’ll just close my eyes and go to sleep,” he says.
Please, please, please go to sleep and I can pretend I’m not turned on to the moon and back just being near you.
“Good night, Remy. It was nice seeing you today.”
Ugh.
I can’t be this person. I blow out an apologetic breath. “I’m sorry I walked in on you.”
He doesn’t even have the courtesy to laugh. He just says, “Are you though? You didn’t seem sorry.”
How dare he!
I yank off the duvet from over my head and flip over. “I am,” I insist, the moonlight casting the room in a dim glow. “I couldn’t see. I thought it was raining. I didn’t have my glasses on. I’m sorry.”
He smirks again, but then it vanishes. “I’m not.”
And I burn everywhere. Flames lick my bones, my hair, my heart from his words.
I part my lips, but what do I even say? I’m the one who pumped the brakes on us. Everything feels so complicated, our lives entangled in ways that make a bedtime tryst a bad idea. My breakup is still so fresh.
But the pull toward him is so strong. It’s so much. There’s a drumbeat inside me and it’s pounding out a rhythm to his name. This longing to touch him is consuming me. It’s eating me up. It’s taking me apart.
Nerves are throttling me though. How do I make the next move? Do I even?
He lifts a hand, like he’s about to touch me, maybe to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I hold my breath and hope.
But he just slides it through his hair, the consummate picture of a patient man. A man who’s willing to wait for it.
To wait for me to say something.
“Lake,” I begin, my resistance starting to melt away.
“Yes?”
“I’m not that sorry,” I say, and my lips twist into a naughty smile.
He shifts to his side, studying me. “You did want to join me, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. And the unspoken words, admit it, hang there at the end in the charged, dark air, the moonlight slicing across his lovely skin.
There’s no point pretending anymore. There’s just none.
“Maybe I did. A little bit,” I say.
His smile could light up the night sky. It’s a goddamn star twinkling. He leans closer, and I think—no, I hope—he’s going to pin me down and kiss me senseless.
But instead, he dusts a too-chaste kiss to my cheek.
All the air whooshes from my lungs. A pulse beats between my thighs.
Whispering, “Good night, Remy,” he breaks the kiss, pulls back, turns the other way, and pulls up the covers to his sturdy pecs.
No.
Just no.
That is not happening. Powered by lust and weeks of pent-up desire, I grab for his shoulder. “Don’t you dare go to sleep.”
He climbs over me, and kisses the breath out of me.