Chapter 15 #2
"This isn't domestic bliss," Mac says, drying a plate with more attention than it requires. "This is just two people sharing space."
"Right. Very practical. Nothing romantic about it at all."
"Exactly. Because if we were trying to draw lines to romance, that would enter date territory, and you agreed this isn't one of our dates." He looks at me pointedly, seeing right through my lies.
But when he hands me the clean plate, our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away. The touch is electric and warm, and everything I shouldn't be feeling for a man who's leaving town the moment his heating gets fixed.
"Delaney." My name is rough in his voice.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For offering your place. I know it's not convenient. Not many people would give up their privacy to house a stranger."
"It's fine." It's not fine. It's the opposite of fine. It's wonderful and terrifying and I'm in so much trouble. “And you aren't a stranger.”
We're standing in my tiny kitchen with clean dishes between us and tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Mac's looking at me like he wants to say something else, something important, but then his phone buzzes with a text.
And the moment breaks.
He unlocks it and frowns. "Team group chat. Jake's asking where I disappeared to."
"Jake?"
"My defense partner,” he reminds me.
“Ah, yes. Jake Morrison,” I recall from his stories earlier. Jake is the one he talks about most.
“He's..." Mac pauses, typing back. "He's been covering for me with the press. Good guy."
I file that information away, already thinking about Maya's reaction to hearing about another hockey player.
She's been suspiciously interested in my updates about Mac's teammates whenever he mentions them.
If she thinks we'll get lucky a second time with a hockey player to save us, she's out of her mind.
I'm hardly keeping Mac entertained here.
An hour later, we're facing the reality of sharing a bed. I've changed into my most conservative pajamas—a full coverage flannel set that belonged to Gran—while Mac stands in my bedroom doorway looking like he'd rather face a penalty shot.
"I can take the floor," he offers.
"Don't be ridiculous. You're recovering from injuries."
"I could drive to the next town–"
"Mac." I pat the left side of my king bed, which suddenly looks much smaller than usual. "We're adults. It's just sleeping."
Of course, he doesn't look convinced.
Twenty minutes later, I'm lying rigidly on my side of the bed, regretting ever opening my mouth and inviting him in.
We're adults? What was I thinking? I cannot handle this. I haven't even had a man in my bed for years.
My only solace is that Mac is equally rigid on his side. There's approximately two feet of space between us and a carefully constructed wall of pillows, but I'm hyperaware of every breath he takes, every small movement he makes.
This is so much worse than the cabin.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter into my pillow.
"What is?"
I turn my body, lying on my back. "We're acting like teenagers afraid of cooties."
Mac's laugh is low and warm in the darkness. "Speak for yourself. I'm acting like a guy trying not to cross lines with a woman who's being incredibly generous."
"What lines?"
The question hangs between us. I know I should take it back, pretend I didn't ask, but wine and proximity and fried-out nerves have made me brave.
The truth is, there are no lines. Not from my side.
"Delaney…" Mac's voice holds a warning in the way it always does when he speaks my name like that.
"It's just a question,” I blink up at the ceiling innocently, even though he can't fully see me.
"It's not just anything with you."
I turn to face him, which is a mistake because even in the dim light from the street lamp outside, Mac is devastatingly handsome. His hair is messed up from the pillow, and the t-shirt he threw on before dinner has ridden up slightly, showing a strip of toned stomach that makes my mouth go dry.
I lift my voice in mock offense. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He turns his head, and I note that his hands are carefully clasped across his abdomen. Unable to stray. "It means you make everything complicated."
"I make things complicated?" I feign offense.
I definitely make things complicated, but I'll never admit to it.
Turning on his side to face me, he tucks an arm beneath his head. A thick, muscular, tattooed arm…
I nearly lick my lips.
Even with the light gleaming behind him, casting shadows across his face, I can see those dimples deepening with his smirk. “Don't do that.”
“What?”
“Don't look at me like that and expect me to hold onto my restraint.”
“I don't expect anything, Mac.”
He shakes his head, eyes closed in exasperation. "You make me want things I shouldn't want."
The admission hits like lightning between us. In the dimly lit room, his eyes are intense on mine, and I can see the exact moment he realizes he's said too much. His smile falls, brows pinching together.
"Mac–"
He shakes his head. "Forget I said that."
"I can't."
"Try," he insists, his tone resolute.
But neither of us moves away. We're lying there facing each other on either side of the mountain of pillows, like we're having the most important conversation of our lives.
Which, maybe we are.
"What if I don't want to forget?" I whisper.
Mac closes his eyes like I'm causing him physical pain. "Delaney."
"What if I want you to want things you shouldn't want?"
When he opens his eyes again, they're blazing with something that makes my stomach flip. "You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying," I insist.
"This is supposed to be fake,” he reminds me, his voice a plea.
"You and I both know we're well past that." We've had enough slip-ups to solidify that point. “And like I said, we're both adults.”
"The bet–"
My frustrated growl interrupts him. "Forget the bet."
Mac reaches out like he's going to touch my face, then stops himself. His hand hovers on the pillows in the space between us, and I can feel the heat of his skin without contact.
"I can’t forget the bet. I'm leaving when this is over," he says quietly, reminding me for the hundredth time. “As soon as they call me back.”
I swallow. "I know."
"I'm not good for you,” he tries again.
My brows pull together in a scowl. "That's not your choice to make."
"Isn't it?"
I reach up and cover his suspended hand with mine, guiding it to my cheek. His palm is warm and slightly rough, and when his thumb traces across my cheekbone, I lean into the touch.
"Delaney," he breathes again. A plea.
"Yeah?"
"We shouldn't."
"No, we absolutely should not," I agree breathlessly.
But he doesn't pull his hand away, and I don't let go of his wrist. Slowly, his calloused palm brushes down my cheek, following my jawline until he reaches my throat.
His fingers wrap around the front of it, dilated eyes gleaming before me.
I swallow again, this time against his palm.
My heart kicks into hyperdrive as he gently tugs me toward him.
He applies just enough pressure to dominate me, but not enough to cut off my air supply.
And holy fuck, is it hot.
“If you don't want this, I need you to tell me to stop,” he rasps, his lips so close, I can feel his breath against the tip of my nose. When did he slide on top of the pillows? “I don't have it in me to leave right now, the way I know I should. But if you tell me to stop, I will.”
I shake my head, the motion pushing his fingers deeper into the sensitive skin of my throat. The sensation sends shockwaves through me. My voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Please don't stop.”
He groans, low and wanting.
I don't give him any more room to talk. Instead, I close the short distance between our mouths and capture his lips in a kiss.
He responds immediately, sliding his tongue against my bottom lip to give himself deeper access.
His hand on my throat tightens, pulling a low moan out of me as he slides himself closer until our bodies are flush.
Even Gran's thick flannel can't block me from feeling the hardness of his muscles against my soft flesh.
His arm snakes around my back, yanking me over the wall of pillows and on top of him on one effortless swoop. My legs straddle his hips, and suddenly I'm regretting putting all these layers on.
Too much sits between us now. I want to peel it all away until it's just him and I, our skin melting into each other.
My hands move on their own accord, gripping the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head—only breaking our kiss for a millisecond—before I toss it somewhere behind me.
Mac responds immediately, his hands sliding up and down the bare skin of my back.
I pull away, exposing my full torso to the cool night air as Mac's eyes move to my breasts, his palms following my movement to brush my loose hair out of the way.
He cups both, weighing them, and I resist the urge to let my self-conscious thoughts chase away the good of this moment.
My thumbs dig into my waistband, shoving them down as far as they'll go before I have to stand on my knees and awkwardly pull them off my legs while still on top of him.
The move presses his erection further against me, and I have to suppress the gasp that tries to leave my lips at his sheer size.
Even with his sweats and my panties separating us, he feels… amazing.
Speaking of which…
Pointing to his sweatpants, I finally meet his gaze.
“Off,” I demand, surprised at how confident my voice sounds.
Mac smirks, and I can tell he's biting back one of his sarcastic remarks as he lifts his hips off the bed—pressing himself against me so hard, I don't even stifle my whimper—and pushes both his sweatpants and his underwear down his legs beneath me.
I don't notice until he settles back onto the bed and the warm, silky skin of his erection rubs against my inner thigh.