Chapter Eighteen
Rhodes
My head is fuzzy, but I’m not drunk. A little tipsy, just enough to loosen my restraint, enough that I want to touch Monroe more than I probably should. Her arm is still looped around my waist, holding me up like she thinks she’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I don’t feel like correcting her if it means she keeps touching me.
I already said too much tonight. I’d really wanted to be good—I had every intention of letting her set the pace—but Monroe in my jersey threw me. I think I knew it would when I had Kelsey drop it off.
I find Beck, Finn, and JD and give them a look. They grin, understanding passing between us.
“The boys and I will find our own way home tonight.” Beck’s voice is loud over the music and his expression is all smug amusement. Finn whoops, Tyler and Callum slap hands.
I roll my eyes and steer Monroe toward the exit, because if I don’t get her alone soon, I’m going to do something fucking stupid, like drag her into a bathroom and make her say my name loud enough for half the bar to hear.
And while I’m not morally opposed to that idea—in fact, I’d very much like everyone in a hundred-mile radius to hear her screaming my name—I don’t think that’s what she wants.
“Where are the guys?” Monroe’s hazel eyes look up at me through thick, dark lashes. Her lip gloss has long since worn off, but her lips shine anyway when she darts her tongue out to wet her mouth. I hold back a groan.
I’ve done nothing but fantasize about her since I kissed her at the rink.
My dick starts to harden in my jeans, and I shift to adjust so it stops pressing directly against the zipper.
I’ve spent more time than I want to admit half-hard, just watching Monroe do whatever the hell she’s doing at any given moment I’m lucky enough to just be near her.
“They’re not coming,” I say, sobering up a little more once we step out into the parking lot. I click my keys to remember where I parked.
Monroe hums in acknowledgment. “I’ll drive,” she says. “I didn’t drink.”
I think about arguing that I’m fine enough now to drive, but I decide to let her take care of me for as long as she wants to. I am reveling in her attention. I hand her the keys and open the driver’s-side door for her.
“You don’t mind me driving your car?” She side-eyes me with a smirk. “Most guys don’t want a girl to touch their baby.”
I snort. “I mean, don’t crash it, but I’m not worried.”
I should be, but not about the car. I’d let her total the thing if it meant I got to keep this—her driving me home, her laughing at my dumbass teammates, her in my jersey.
She puts the car in reverse and heads back to her apartment. Now I’m trying to figure out how to get her to ask me to stay.
“My last boyfriend nearly took my head off when I asked to drive his truck.”
“Sounds like a dick,” I scoff. “Who was it?”
“Jacob Pearlman,” she replies.
“Stupid name.”
“Agreed. He was a stupid guy, so it tracks.”
“Well, yeah, anyone who lets you get away is an idiot.” The most delicious pink blush creeps up her cheeks. I’m pushing the envelope with every statement I make insinuating that I want more than what she’s allowed so far.
She parks in front of her building and exhales through her nose, like she’s debating something with herself.
Then she flicks her eyes toward me—deliberate, decisive.
“You should probably come in. Sleep off the drinks,” she says, avoiding eye contact.
“Right,” I reply. “Of course.”
“I can’t let you get behind the wheel of a car in your state,” she says carefully.
I let a smile tug at my lips, agreeing quickly. “No, definitely not.”
I open my door, step out, and follow her inside. I’m pretty sure we both know I’m not drunk or even tipsy anymore, but the ball is in her court.