Page 45 of Rinkmates

“It’s nothing. You can’t afford to catch a cold, so we’re going to get you dressed. ASAP.” I’d love to tell her that I worry more about her seductive body than the flood she caused, but hell, I would never say that out loud.

“How can you be okay with it? Just thinking about the cost, it’s—” She drives both her hands through her wet hair, and just from the corner of my eyes, I see it coming. My death sentence. Luckily, my reflexes are sharp, like a hockey player’s, or I wouldn’t have managed to catch that godforsaken towel in time. With trembling fingers, I clutch the cloth with all my might. But just as I keep it up, I realize how much of an idiot I am.

“Um,” she mutters, suddenly not seeming to panic at all anymore.

We just stand there.

I blink. She blinks.

And here I am, with my hands on her towel.

I cough nervously and nod to my hands. “Um, would you please?”

Her plush mouth forms a littleOand she grabs her towel. Her cheeks are as red as beets, and I’m pretty sure mine look the same. It’s then that I realize we’re so damn close. In my bedroom. She stands there, rooted to the ground. Damn, it’s the first time a girl is half naked in here and not mine.

Our feet touch, her gaze flicks up to my mouth, and as if that tiny reaction alone would earn me a twenty-year sentence, I retreat and search for something she can wear. Fuck. Fucking shit. I need to fuck someone. My hand just isn’t enough anymore. This is embarrassing. I’ve never felt anything like this. Her living in my apartment and not fucking me must be wrecking my brain.

With the first shirt I could find, I turn around and find her staring at my room, so I try to say something. Anything. Just to get rid of that silence.

“Not what you expected?”

She turns around. Her knuckles white from clasping the towel against the swell of her breasts. “What?”

“My room.”

She grins. I take a deep breath.

“You have more books than I thought.”

I blink, surprised. She’s the first person to notice the massive bookshelf next to my bed. Most girls usually comment on the array of trophies lined up above it. The truth is, I just don’t know where else to put them. Since I didn’t want them cluttering the living room, I ended up stashing all the medals and trophies in here.

“Ah, because hockey players don’t read, huh?”

“I didn’t thinkyouread.”

Ouch.

There’s that challenging grin of hers, and if I didn’t know she hates the guts out of me, I’d think she’s flirting.

My mind drifts back to the photo burning a hole in my pocket.

Liora in another man’s arms.

I stretch out the shirt in my hands and notice it’s one of my jerseys.

Oh. I quickly add a few pairs of boxers for her to wear, hoping she doesn’t realize how much giving her one of my jerseys means to me. It’s a sensitive thing. Seeing her wear my name feels almost primal, like a possessive urge.

“You can keep it, it’s yours,” I say rougher than I want and drop it on my bed.

“Thanks,” she says, still staring at my bookshelf as if she’s dying to know which books I’ve got in there. I know that feeling. Each time I find a bookshelf I need to know what the owner reads.

“I mostly read thrillers or mysteries. Dan Brown. Gillian Flynn. Stieg Larsson. You name it,” I say. “I do enjoy some fantasy, too, a story that takes me somewhere that’s anything but my life.”

A knot twists in my gut and she looks up to me as if to ask why on earth I would be anyone but me. “It’s not all gold that shines,” I simply say, and she nods as if she understands. Or at least tries to.

But then she shifts and I stare at the rivulets of water still trailing down her bare legs. But yeah, I notice. I swallow. The towel ends just inches below her pussy. And the way she presses those thighs against each other. Damn it.

That image will be seared in my memory forever.

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