CHAPTER SIX
SERVICES RENDERED
Jordie
I’m losing my mind.
That’s the only explanation for why I’m standing outside Elise’s door at ten PM, holding a bag of gummy bears like some kind of peace offering.
Except it’s not peace I’m offering.
It’s… I don’t even know what it is.
All I know is that she’s been in this house for five days, and I can’t stop thinking about her.
I can’t stop replaying the way those sleep shorts rode up earlier, the cotton clinging to her perfect pussy lips that I wanted to trace with my tongue.
The way she looked at all three of us like she knew exactly what she was doing.
She did know.
And it’s working.
I knock. Two quick raps before I can talk myself out of this.
“Yeah?”
Her voice is muffled and distracted.
I open the door.
She’s sitting on her bed, one leg pulled up, painting her toenails a dark red—the color of wine, blood, or bad decisions.
She looks up and raises an eyebrow. “You know knocking usually means you wait for permission before entering, right?”
“You said yeah.”
“I said yeah as in ‘who is it?’ not ‘come on in.’”
“Semantics.” I lean against her doorframe and hold up the gummy bears. “Brought you contraband.”
She eyes the bag. “What are those?”
“Gummy bears. The good kind. Not the cheap ones that taste like plastic.”
“And you’re bringing them to me because…”
“Because you looked like you could use them.” I step fully into her room—uninvited but not unwelcome. There’s a difference. “Also because I’m trying to bribe my way into your good graces.”
“Bold of you to assume I have good graces.”
“Don’t you?”
She considers this, then goes back to painting her pinky toe with careful precision. “Jury’s still out.”
Her room is neat but lived-in. Textbooks are stacked on her desk, and a photo on her nightstand shows an older woman with kind eyes—maybe her grandmother. Her laptop is open, displaying some organic chemistry thing on the screen that makes my brain hurt just looking at it.
She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and those same sleep shorts from earlier. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and she has no makeup on. She looks younger like this. Softer.
Still hot as hell.
I’m so screwed.
“You need help with that?” I nod at the nail polish.
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “With painting my toenails?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how to paint toenails?”
“I have two older sisters.” I move closer and sit on the edge of her bed without asking. “I know how to do a lot of things.”
The words come out more suggestive than I intended. Her eyes flick to mine and hold.
Something sparks.
“That so?” Her voice is careful, neutral.
“Yeah.” I reach for the nail polish bottle. “Let me.”
She hesitates, then hands it over.
Her foot feels small in my hand—delicate. I shouldn’t notice things like that, but I do. I notice everything about her, apparently.
I dip the brush and start on her big toe.
My hands are steady, thanks to years of hand-eye coordination from hockey and being forced to sit still while my sisters practiced makeup techniques on me when I was ten.
“You’re actually good at this,” she says, sounding surprised.
“Told you.”
“Your sisters taught you?”
“Molly and Caroline. Both lawyers now. Both terrifying.” I finish her big toe and move to the second. “They used to make me play salon when I was a kid. I was the only one who would sit still long enough.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
She laughs softly. The sound does something to my chest, making it feel tight and loose at the same time.
I’m in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.
Because I like her. Not just want her—though I definitely want her—but actually like her. The way she doesn’t take shit from anyone. The way she’s been handling Grant’s cold shoulder and the team’s petty bullshit. The way she put that vibrator on the bathroom counter like a declaration of war.
She’s magnificent.
And I’m painting her toenails like some kind of simp.
My father would be horrified. Senator Dickson’s son, on his knees for a girl he’s known for only a handful of days.
But my father isn’t here.
And she smells good—something clean and warm, maybe citrus. I want to lean in closer and find out where it’s coming from.
I don’t.
I keep painting, focusing on the task, trying not to think about how her leg is warm under my hand. How if I slid my palm up a few inches, I’d be touching her thigh.
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “Is this part of your charm offensive?”
“My what?”
“You’ve been very friendly. Very… attentive.” She’s studying me now, her hazel eyes sharp. “Is this your thing? Making friends with the new girl?”
“Maybe I just think you could use a friend.”
“Because Grant’s being an asshole?”
“Among other reasons.”
“What are the other reasons?”
I finish painting her middle toe and move to the fourth. “Maybe I like you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re smart. Really smart. You don’t back down when people push you. You have this smirk when you think you’ve won.” I look up at her. “Like right now.”
She is smirking. Caught.
“You’re observant,” she says, laughing softly.
“Occupational hazard. Defensemen have to read the play.”
“Is that what this is? You reading the play?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s your read?”
I finish her last toe and set the brush back in the bottle, but I don’t let go of her foot.
“My read is that you’re tired of being the new girl. Tired of fighting. And maybe you could use someone who’s on your side.”
“And you’re volunteering?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because you’re beautiful and brave, and you make me want to be better than the guy my father expects me to be.
Because when you look at me, you see me, not just the senator’s son.
Because I’m pretty sure I’m already halfway in love with you, and I’m supposed to be focusing on hockey and school, not catching feelings for my roommate.
“Why not?” I say instead.
She pulls her foot back, creating distance.
“Jordie.”
The way she says my name is careful, like she’s trying not to hurt me.
I know what’s coming.
“I appreciate this,” she continues. “The gummy bears, the nail painting, all of it. But—”
“But we’re roommates,” I finish.
“Yeah.”
“I’m very good with technicalities.” I flash her my best smile, the one that usually works. “I’m also very good at other things, if you’re interested.”
Her cheeks flush, just slightly, but I catch it.
“What kind of other things?”
Got her.
“Well.” I sit up and move a little closer. “I could brush your hair. I’m told I have very gentle hands.”
“Uh huh.”
“Or I could make you tea. I make excellent tea.”
“Right.”
“Or—” I lower my voice, letting the playfulness shift into something deeper, something real. “I could lick your pussy until you come so hard you forget your own name.”
A flush spreads down her neck, disappearing beneath her t-shirt.
She swallows. “That escalated quickly.”
“Just offering my services.”
“Your services.”
“I’m a full-service roommate.” I’m close enough now to see her pupils dilate, to watch her pulse jump in her throat. “Very attentive to detail.”
“I noticed.”
“So?”
She’s wavering. I can see it—the desire in her eyes battling with the practical part of her brain that knows this is a bad idea.
Say yes. Come on. Say yes.
“We can’t,” she finally says.
My stomach drops. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Why?”
“Because we live together. Because Grant will lose his mind. Because this is already messy, and adding sex to it would make it—”
“Messier,” I finish.
“Yeah.”
“What if I like messy?”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“You like messy. You put your vibrator on the bathroom counter. You walked past us with your laundry like you were trying to start a fire.” I lean in, close enough to smell that citrus scent and see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. “You’re not scared of messy. You’re scared of wanting it.”
Her breath catches. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
We’re staring at each other, six inches apart, the air between us charged.
Kiss her. Don’t kiss her. Kiss her. Don’t—
She closes the distance.
Her lips hit mine, and my brain short-circuits.
She tastes like mint toothpaste and possibility. Her hand slides into my hair, and I make a sound that’s embarrassing, but I don’t care.
I pull her closer, angle my head, and deepen the kiss.
She opens for me, and it’s better than I imagined—better than anything.
Her tongue touches mine, and I’m gone. Completely gone.
I shift, pushing her back against her pillows, covering her body with mine.
She gasps against my mouth, arching up.
My hand slides under her shirt, finding warm skin. She’s soft. Perfect.
“Jordie—”
“Yeah?”
“We shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
But neither of us stops.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. I can feel the heat of her through my sweatpants, can sense exactly how much she wants this.
I rock against her, just once, testing.
She moans.
The sound goes straight to my dick.
I’m so hard it hurts. I want her so badly I can barely think.
This is happening. We’re doing this. We’re—
A door slams downstairs.
We freeze.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Angry.
Grant.
Elise pushes at my chest. “Get off.”
I roll away. Fast. My heart is hammering.
She sits up, smoothing her shirt and hair, trying to look like we weren’t just making out like teenagers.
She fails.
Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, her shirt twisted.
I probably don’t look any better.
The footsteps stop outside her door.
We both stare at it.
A long pause.
Then Grant keeps walking. His door opens. Closes.
We exhale simultaneously. If I were to fuck her in here, Grant would definitely hear it. The whole house would hear it. These walls are horribly thin.
“That was close,” she whispers.
“Yeah.”
“You should go.”
“Probably.”
But I don’t move. I can’t quite make myself leave when she’s looking at me like that, when I can still taste her.
“Jordie.” Her voice is softer now, almost regretful. “This was—”
“A mistake,” I finish. “I know. You mentioned.”
“I was going to say ‘incredible.’”
My heart does something stupid. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She touches her lips, as if trying to memorize the feeling. “But also a mistake.”
“Those things can coexist.”
“They really can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I came here for school. For my future. Not to—” She gestures between us. “This.”
I kiss her again—just a soft press of my mouth to hers.
“Grant would lose his shit,” she whispers.
“Fuck Grant,” I say.
“Jordie.” She finally looks at me, and there’s something sad in her eyes that makes my chest ache. “You’re sweet. And this was nice. But we can’t do this again.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
The word lands like a punch.
I stand, adjusting my raging hard-on and shoving my hands in my pockets so I don’t reach for her again.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think you’re worth the complication.”
“You don’t know me well enough to think that.”
“Maybe not. But I’d like to.”
She doesn’t respond, just looks at me with those hazel eyes that see too much.
I head for the door, stop, and look back.
“If you change your mind about my services, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t.”
“We’ll see.”
I close her door behind me and stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to get my breathing under control.
Grant’s door is closed, but I can hear him moving around restlessly.
He knows something happened—he must have sensed it somehow.
Good.
Let him stew.
I head to my room, close the door, and lean against it.
My lips still taste like her, and my hand remembers the feel of her skin.
This is bad.
Really bad.
Because she’s right; we can’t do this. We can’t complicate an already complicated situation.
But I want to.
I want her.
And Jordie Dickson has never been good at walking away from something he
wants, even when he should.