Page 28 of Cold as Ice

“Not the library this time. Sammy’s.”

Mal frowned. “If you’re looking for a way to distract yourself . . .”

“I’m looking fordinner, you idiot,” Elliott said and smacked him in the shoulder.

Even Elliott hitting him affected him.

Imagine if he touched you and it was purposeful and sweet and hot . . .

Mal jerked his attention back to the conversation. “Uh, okay. Yeah. We can do that. Sammy’s makes a good sub.”

“So youarehuman, after all,” Elliott teased. “You even eat, like a real boy!”

Mal glowered. “Not everything has to be a joke.”

“But it’s fun when it is,” Elliott said, nudging him again.

He still wasn’t wearing a shirt and even though Malcolm was now, he still felt the imprint of Elliott’s heat, even after he shrugged on a hoody and stepped out in the cold, rainy Oregon fall.

“Hey,” Ramsey said, calling out to him as he headed towards his apartment. “Wait up.”

“Are you going to guilt me into going to another party?” Yes, it was a Friday night, but Mal didn’t feel like faking a smile andwatching as Elliott Jones took home yet another unsuspecting, completely thrilled guy.

He’d seen plenty of that, over the last year and a half.

Ramsey grinned. Slung an arm around Mal’s shoulders, and to Mal’s annoyance, he couldstillfeel that last touch of Elliott’s.

“Would I do that?” Ramsey asked earnestly, the corner of his mouth turning up into a very Ramsey-like smirk.

Here was the thing: he could tell Ramsey the truth about his virginity. Ramsey wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t even joke about it. Would probably, in a serious, Ramsey-like way, offer to alleviate that concern for him. Maybe Malcolm would even enjoy it—oh,his dick cried,you’d enjoy it—but it would fuck everything up, and while Mal might feel a little desperate, he was not that stupid.

At this point, maybe sex might not mean something, not like flowers and chocolates and Valentine’s Day kisses, but he wanted it to be more than just scratching an itch.

“You absolutely fucking would,” Mal said.

“Maybe I might’ve done it a few times, but you had a good time.” Ramsey paused. “Okay, adecenttime. If you’d get out of your comfort zone, have a beer, relax a little—”

“No,” Malcolm said, with finality. “No.”

“Alright, alright. No beers, no relaxation. I get it. You’re primed. And well . . .” Ramsey shrugged, wincing a little. “You’re a little primed, buddy.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Mal was afraid he understood, though, a little too well.

He was feeling a little edgier than normal. Yes, it was par for the course for Elliott to churn him up, but today’s bullshit had done more than just churn up the normal kind of annoyances. He felt different . . .aching and desperate in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“You bitmyhead off a few times.”

“That was just the frustration of the game. The first period—”

“Yeah,” Ramsey said. “About that. Let’s talk about the first period.”

They turned down Washington Avenue, and Malcolm realized, belatedly, that Ramsey had actually walked way farther than he needed to—if his destination was the Gamma Sigma house—only to keep talking to him.

And here was the thing about Ramsey. He appeared congenial and friendly and non-threatening. But Ramsey was actually so much more than that. A master planner in innocent sheep’s clothing. He worked everyone, effortlessly and easily, and barely anybody even realized.

But Malcolm knew. He just preferred it when Ramsey’s superpowers were not turned on him—and he was afraid that right now, he was dead in Ramsey’s sights.

“What about the first period?” Mal asked testily. Worried what Ramsey might say. Worried about what Ramseywasn’tsaying.

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