Page 101 of The Play

“Nah, I get it. He heard about our dalliance with the cops last night and jumped to conclusions.”

Her jaw drops. “How on earth did he find out about that?”

“It’s gotten around,” I admit. “Coach told Brenna, so now the entire team knows about it, and people talk. He lives in Hastings, right? Hell, he could’ve heard someone talking about it at the diner.”

“Maybe.” She curses. “Ugh. You’re bleeding again. Sit down, will you?”

I dutifully lower myself onto the closed toilet lid. If she wants to fuss over me, then I’m going to let her.

She shoves some toilet paper under the sink faucet, then presses the wet wad against my lip to soak up the blood.

“Let’s leave this on here for thirty seconds or so,” she murmurs. “Hopefully the pressure will stop the bleeding for good.”

I try not to smile. “You know I could be doing this myself, right?”

“Just let me do it, Hunter. Please. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

She kneels on the floor and damned if that position doesn’t send a flurry of dirty images to my brain. If a woman’s on her knees in front of me, it’s usually because she’s about to undo my pants and take my cock out. My eyes dip to Demi’s pink lips. I imagine the tight suction of them around the head of my cock and suddenly it becomes difficult to swallow.

I jerk my gaze away from her mouth.

“What?” she says urgently. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I croak. Christ. My dick is harder than stone.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’re in pain! Is this hurting?” She reduces some of the pressure.

“It’s all good. Don’t worry about it.”

Demi bites her lower lip. Fuck, I need to stop fixating on those gorgeous lips. But I can’t. They’d probably feel so soft and warm pressed against mine.

We should not be alone together right now. I’m still hopped up on adrenaline from the game, from the fight.

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” she mutters.

“I’m fine. Trust me, I’ve suffered worse from playing hockey.”

She removes the toilet paper from my lip. It’s soaked red, and she makes a face before tossing it in the wastebasket. “The bleeding stopped,” she says.

“That’s good.”

Her fingertips run over my cheek again.

“Demi,” I say thickly.

“Yeah?”

“Please stop touching me.”

She looks startled. “Why?”

“Because no one’s touched me like that in ages. You realize this is essentially torture?”

She presses her lips together as if resisting a smile. “It’s turning you on?” Her knuckles graze my cheekbone, the one that isn’t bruised. “This? This is turning you on?”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “Therefore—please stop.”

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