Page 48 of Cold as Ice

That’s a lie.Lie to him, but not to yourself.

But Elliott didn’t. He was still right in Mal’s space, definitely in his bubble, but he didn’t move a fraction of an inch closer.

“Thanks,” Mal finally got out. Knowing he should be appreciative. But not sure for what anymore.

“’Course,” Elliott said. “Anytime.”

There was a knowing edge to the word,anytime.

Like all Mal would have to do was say the word, and Elliott would do something—hopefully alotof things—about that heat between them.

Mal would just have to be the one to say.

And he couldn’t say.

The words felt trapped inside him, under too many layers of ice, painstakingly and achingly created over the years.

At first the wall had been on purpose. Now it didn’t feel purposeful so much as a force of habit that he didn’t know how to break.

“I . . .uh . . .better get going,” Mal said, even though deep down, he didn’t want to goanywhere.Maybe he and Elliott could exist just like this, their skin not touching but close enough that itcould. Elliott swaying closer, his hair damp and curling at the temples, his green eyes bright and knowing when they gazed up into his own.

Maybe Elliott felt the same, because he didn’t move. Not right away.

He’d fought the compulsion for what felt like forever, and he gave up when Elliott finally took a single step back.

Let his gaze sweep down Elliott’s torso. The lightly muscled shoulders, his pecs with their pale pink nipples, and then lower, appreciating the taut stomach and abs and finally following the trail of light brown hair down to his waistband.

His skin didn’t just feel warm now, but burning.

Then his gaze snagged on the bloom of a dark gray and purple bruise curving around towards his back.

Without thinking, Mal touched it gently, four fingertips pressing against his skin. And it was soft. His cock throbbed with that knowledge.

“Areyouokay?” he asked softly. “This looks rough.”

“It’s . . .” Elliott’s voice was rough and hushed. “It’s fine. Really. Uh . . .from a few days ago.”

Mal forced himself to stop touching him. Especially when he was determined not to do anything about it—there was that long-standing habit he didn’t know how to break.

But even if he didn’t intend to break it, hecouldhelp Elliott the same way he’d helped him. The bruise was in a weird spot. It must hurt. Mal knew, because Mal had had plenty of bruises in that vicinity over the years.

“I can help,” Mal said, and only then did Elliott take another few steps back, allowing Mal to slide off the bench. He knewwhat he wanted, rummaging through the drawers of supplies until he found what he was looking for.

“This’ll help with some of the pain.”

Elliott gave a short incredulous bark of laughter. “That’s not . . .uh . . .well, not what hurts.”

Mal didn’t ask what hurt. Didn’t need to look down again, either, to know that Elliott was probably sporting a hard-on in his briefs. Same as Mal’s.

You know what that means. What it should mean.

But Mal pushed the voice aside, and squeezing numbing ointment onto his fingers, reached over and began to carefully massage it into Elliott’s multi-colored skin.

“That should feel better,” Mal said with an approving nod.

He grabbed an antiseptic wipe and made sure to clean off his fingertips. He didn’t want them going numb, too. He wanted to feel that satin smooth brush of Elliott’s skin under them forever.

“Yeah.” Elliott nodded.

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