Chapter Eighteen #2
After a few minutes searching, I locate eggs, sausage, cheese, and sourdough bread.
By the time he’s done with his shower and joins me—wearing the thinnest sweatpants ever—I’ve plated up breakfast. I glance at his cute belly button, then lower, so distracted by the outline of his dick in those sinful sweats that I almost drop the toast on the floor.
“Coffee?” I ask, my hands trembling.
“I’ll take care of that. You look like you need to eat.”
He smirks and I know he’s not talking about eggs.
“You want a latte?” he offers. “It’s your fave, right?”
“It is. Thanks.”
Finn’s right, I am lightheaded, so I sit my butt on a stool and dig into breakfast. I haven’t had any calories in… I can’t remember. Finn prepares the coffees, offers me a bowl of brown sugar, and takes a seat beside me.
“After this, I’m gonna head back to mine,” I tell him. “It’s still early, so hopefully no one’s around. By the way, any of our teammates live on this floor?”
“Nope.”
Finn goes silent after that, eating faster than me.
I reach for his arm. “I’d love to stay longer, but—”
“I know. Work comes first and we gotta be careful.” He finally looks over at me. “But for future reference, you’re welcome to come here and cook for me anytime. Best scrambled eggs with sausage ever.”
“Doubtful, but thanks.”
“Take a freaking compliment, Kirkland! Six months ago you would’ve been bragging to no end. Admit it.”
I laugh and bite my lower lip. He’s so right.
“Okay, this meal is amazing. I’m amazing,” I quip. “Hockey god, master chef, the best at Scrabble.”
“Scrabble? I don’t think so.” Finn shakes his head. “I’ve already got the title.”
“Only one way to prove it,” I tease. “Only a handful of people know about the Scrabble thing.”
“Your secrets are safe with me.” Finn winks. “But you forgot something.”
“What?”
He leans over to whisper in my ear. “Best kisser.”
“No, you win that one,” I admit.
“Me? You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve kissed a lot of people, Finn, and yes, you.”
“But I—” He stops and stares at me.
“I speak the truth.”
I lean over to make my point, but he puts a hand on my pec to stop me.
“We said no kissing or touching, Sel.”
I point to his chest. “You said, and I’m not the only one breaking the rule.”
He offers a wicked grin and torments my nipple with his thumb before removing his hand.
When I look at his face, those damn dimples pop, and the sight makes my heart rate accelerate so fast I’m dizzy again.
I ignore the growing bulge in my sweats, turn back to my plate, and shovel in the rest of my meal.
Hurry up and eat.
Once I’m done, I take the final sip of my coffee and pick up my empty plate.
“Leave it,” Finn offers.
“Okay, I’ll just, uh—” I point to the bedroom, flustered like I never am after spending the night with someone. Not that I often spend the whole night. “Grab my shirt.”
I scuttle off to his bedroom, throw on my T-shirt and running shoes, and hit the head. Glancing at the mirror, I startle at my punch-drunk expression. I splash cold water on my face and remind myself that I don’t want to say or do anything to ruin this morning.
When I make my way back out to the kitchen, Finn’s closing the dishwasher. I stalk up to him, slide one hand up his smooth back, and grab hold of his neck. I can feel his pulse jumping as fast as mine.
“I’ll see you at the rink in a couple of hours,” I murmur. “Just don’t smile at me with those killer dimples.”
“How about I give you dirty looks?” he turns his head. “You know, pick a fight, quash the rumor.”
We agreed no more touching, but fuck that. I can’t resist and kiss his neck.
“Don’t say the word dirty,” I plead. “And I’m not sure our teammates will buy it. I don’t believe you’ve ever had an argument in your life.”
“I have too, on the ice, and with my siblings. And I know just the thing to get me into character.”
“Oh really?”
“I’ll channel Damien.”
“That’ll work.” I smile. “We can work out our anger with each other.”
“Deal.” He leans in and gives me a languid kiss. “How about we ‘work out’ on Saturday?”
Then I remember about my PR plans. Shit.
“Rain check on that, I’ve got a date with Taylor,” I mutter. “Another charity gala.”
Finn tenses and reaches for his coffee, taking a long sip.
“It’s fake,” I remind him.
“I know.” He looks down at his phone and taps it. “You should get going. We have forty-five minutes before we need to leave for the rink.”
“Right. I’d offer you a lift, but—”
“I know, it’s better if we arrive separately,” he replies and turns to me with a nod. “I’ll get a rideshare as usual. At least until I purchase my car.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see you later, then,” I whisper, suddenly awkward.
So much for not ruining the morning. I give his shoulder a squeeze, but he doesn’t move to get up, so I let go and head for the door.
Why did I mention that stupid PR date?
Silently, I step into the hallway and check to see if there’s anyone around.
It’s clear, so I jog over to the elevator and wait.
Thankfully there’s no one riding up with me.
I’m relieved for sure, but something’s niggling at the back of my mind, and when I reach my floor, it hits me.
Fuck. I never answered Finn’s question about when we’re meeting up again.
By the time I step inside my unit, though, I don’t have time to worry about it. I need to haul ass or risk being late.
I head for my bedroom, strip down, and step into the shower.
But instead of quickly lathering up and rinsing off, I close my eyes and reach for my dick, jerking my semi until it’s rock hard.
Fuck, the way Finn looks at me when he comes undone is so hot.
He doesn’t hold back. My strokes get faster, rougher, and within seconds I’m there, shouting Finn’s name, my cum hitting the tile before it washes away.
I’m panting like crazy and rest on the bench seat to catch my breath.
Jesus, I don’t know if I’m going to survive the next time we’re together.
With a clearer head, I sit under the spray and acknowledge that it’s not only the sex that’s got me riled up.
I like being with Finn, I care about him, hell, I feel possessive about him.
This is new to me. New and scary. So many “what ifs” about what we’re doing run through my mind.
Finn and I have our careers to think of and getting emotions involved could be disastrous.
“Enough. Stop thinking about him,” I remind myself out loud. “Go to work.”
Given our situation, that’s not stellar advice.
Foregoing a shave, I quickly get dressed and head down to the parking garage. The traffic’s brutal as usual, but oddly enough, I’m the first player to arrive. Range’s door is open and he’s talking to our assistant coach, Lee. I wave to both and head for the locker room.
As I stand in front of my stall, I give myself another pep talk.
We can separate what happened in Finn’s bed from what we’re about to do on the ice. Don’t stare or flirt, or talk to him about anything but hockey, and you’ll be fine. You can do this.
I hope to fuck I’m right.