Page 56 of Cold as Ice

“You finished it?” Elliott couldn’t deny he was eager to cross the seduction finish line, which was looking more and more probable—but he was also excited to read Mal’s essay. Something that might give him more than the stingy little bits of himself that Mal was willing to dole out.

Mal nodded. “This draft anyway. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say.”

“Maybe.”

“I emailed it to you right before our afternoon workout,” Mal said.

Pulling out his laptop from his bag, Elliott found it in his email and with his heart beating a little faster in anticipation, began to read.

Was aware that with each paragraph he consumed, the more agitated Mal seemed to become.

Not to anyone else, probably.

But Elliott had made a study of Malcolm’s behavior over the years. Even though he’d pulled out that same workbook he’d been scribbling in the other night, he wasn’t writing quickly, decisively. And every few seconds, he shifted uncomfortably on the seat, changing positions half a dozen times in only the time it took Elliott to read a few sentences.

“You alright over there?” Elliott didn’t look up from the screen. “That chafed spot still bugging you?”

“That—” Mal stopped. “No. No. It’s fine. The . . .uh . . .nursing you did with it was satisfactory.”

“That’s me, Nurse Ell. Happy to tend to whatever ails you,” he said lightly.

Finally let his eyes drift up, meet Mal’s. Watched as his eyes darkened. Like he was thinking of Elliott tending to avery specificailment.

He was thinking it. Elliottknewhe was thinking it. That they were both freaking thinking it. But why didn’t he give in? Why didn’t he say,screw this study session, let’s just screw?Or whatever that was in Malcolm McCoy language.

But Mal didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked back down, at his workbook.

Well.

Elliott’s cock throbbed and he had a feeling his balls were about to do the impossible and grow evenbluer.

Chapter 8

Malcolm told himself itwas that they were studying at Sammy’s.

That he was distracted, and in unusual-to-him circumstances.

That he was worried about what Elliott really thought of his essay, though it hadn’t seemed like the guy was holding back when he’d gushed about how improved it was. If Elliott had only given positive feedback, he’d probably have been even more suspicious but he’d even given some very reasonable options for improvement.

Malcolmshouldbe feeling good. He was full of his favorite smoothie—strawberry pineapple—and half an Italian sub, and Elliott was mostly behaving.

But his focus had seemingly deserted him.

He felt unmoored from the regular concrete reality that he depended on.

Instead, his mind wandered. And it kept wandering right into Elliott Archer Jones’ pants.

Malcolm didn’t know if he could even blame Elliott for it, either. Sure, he was doing his normal flirtatious routine, with the little offhand comments and the long, soulful looks, but the truth was, none of that made Mal’s heart race the way it was racing now.

It was stupid things that shouldn’t matter. Like just now, how Mal’s brain had completely deserted its focus on this chapter on negotiation and was instead mesmerized by the way Elliott’s hair shone under the fluorescent lights.

The way it stood up, a little, curling at the ends, when he ran his hands through it.

It’d look even better if you ranyourhands through it.

His brain had apparently completely gone on hiatus, because no matter how many times Mal tried to drag it back to the safe zone, it continued to sneak out. To betray him.

To say nothing of his body.

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