Page 56 of Offside Angel

Steam is rising off of the noodles in a slow swirl, and my mouth is watering. The problem is, another, more insistent part of me has been soaking wet since Zane dragged me onto the ice and kissed me silly.

He slides my plate closer to me. “Eat.”

“I imagined this differently.” I snap my wooden chopsticks in half and stab them into the noodles. I know I’m pouting, but I don’t care what my stomach says; I’m hungry for Zane, not Thai food. “When I told a man I loved him for the first time, he was supposed to be so overcome with emotion that he ravished me on the spot.”

“It was a pretty public spot.”

“Fine,” I concede. “A closet, then. Lots of equipment closets in the arena, I’m sure.”

“Lots of cameras, too.”

He sounds so rational. So level-headed. It’s maddening when I’ve spent the last hour with my heartbeat firmly between my thighs.

I turn to him with a scowl. “How are you so calm?”

Zane slowly lowers his chopsticks and turns to me. He’s all sculpted golden stubble and dreamy blue eyes. I can’t look at him without imagining the scrape of that stubble between my legs. Those eyes hovering over me, black with want as he?—

“It’s thrilling to score a goal in hockey. The feeling of slapping the puck and watching it sail into the net… It’s unreal.”

I blink at him, dazed at the subject change. “Is that supposed to be an innuendo?”

The corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-smile. “But, if I try to score every time I get the puck, I’ll miss most of my shots. Sometimes, the conditions aren’t right.”

“Are you—” I make a show of looking over my shoulders before I face him again. “Are you talking to me right now?”

The conditions could not be more right. If he’d touch me where I want him to touch me, he’d know that already.

Zane leans over and the world narrows. He’s an inch from me, his breath warm against my lips, his thumb brushing back and forth over my jawline. My breath catches and I’m prepared to sacrifice our dinner by swiping it all to the floor so he can throw me on the coffee table instead.

“Right now, the conditions aren’t right,” he says in a low rumble. “You’re hungry, and you’re no good to me if you starve to death.”

What about if I spontaneously combust from sexual frustration?

I swallow hard. “I won’t starve in the next hour.”

“That’s the problem.” He tips my chin up and drags his eyes over my face, down the line of my neck. He bites his lower lip, and I’ve never seen anything more sensual in my entire life. “The plans I have can’t be contained in one hour. I need you strong if you’re going to make it through the night.”

My brain short-circuits. I feel his words fizzing in my chest and tingling in the tips of my toes. I’ve forgotten how to speak, how to eat. Which might be why Zane grabs a bite of food and holds it to my lips.

I accept it, never letting my eyes shift from his. Watching me slurp noodles can’t be cute, but he looks utterly captivated.

Finally, he blinks and hands me my chopsticks. “Eat.”

I don’t taste a single bite of the food I shovel into my mouth. We eat in silence. Mostly because, if either of us says anything, the fraying restraints keeping us apart will snap and I’ll be in Zane’s lap before he can say “pad woon sen.”

Zane is still eating when I slide my takeout container across the coffee table, but before I can even lean back, Zane scoops me up and places me on his lap. My knees are on either side of him. His hands drag down my waist, trying to bring me closer, but I resist.

“Thai breath,” I protest. “I was going to brush my?—”

He catches my lips in a kiss, easing his tongue into my mouth as I soften into him. I sink onto his lap and go dizzy with the evidence of how much Zane wants this pressing against my panties.

“I don’t care,” he pants, breaking away long enough to slide the straps of my dress off of my shoulders.

The material bunches around my waist and Zane groans when he sees I’m not wearing a bra. He takes one nipple into his mouth and then the other, lavishing attention with his tongue and rough strokes of his thumbs along my ribs and the undersides of my breasts.

He works down my body, sliding the dress lower and lower until I have to lift my hips so he can slide it down my thighs. I get momentarily tangled in the material, but Zane doesn’t hesitate. He lifts me up and sits me down on the edge of the coffee table. One by one, he frees my legs and tosses the dress to the side. Then he drops to his knees between my spread thighs.

“This is mine.” He drags a knuckle over the seam of my lace thong. “You want to be mine.”

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