Page 59 of Friendzone Hockey
Meanwhile, my dick threatens me with the world’s worst boner, slowly filling at the sight of my best friend. Who mauled my mouth two nights ago.
Yeah, I think of fucking you. Every goddamn day of my life…
If that’s true, he’s thinking about it right now.
I don’t mean to do it. I swear my eyes have a mind of their own. They flicker down to his crotch. Something’s there. Holy shit. Is that for me? Our gazes collide and unbearable heat burns over my skin. I’m caught looking, and I don’t know that I care. None of this helps. Anger. Anger is my only protection and it’s easy to conjure with how un-fucking-fair this situation is. I lean against the counter, seething with unspent wrath.
For some reason, I assumed he’d keep his distance. He doesn’t, and neither do I. We drift together, it’s what we do. We orbit around each other. His fingers trail over my jaw, leaving a wake of tingles, consuming what’s left of me by osmosis. The bastard isn’t sorry after all, he’s admiring the pretty marks he left on me.
“We need to talk,” he says.
He doesn’t take his hands off me.
“I don’t think we do.”
“Dash.” He squints. A thought seems to dawn on him. “Are you afraid to be alone with me? I swear, you have nothing to worry about.”
That’s so funny, I’d laugh if I wasn’t busy trying to be angry. I’m not afraid that he’ll do something, I’m afraid I will. Hasn’t he noted the change in my breathing? A specific part of my anatomy’s gonna explode in a minute.
“That’s not …no.”
I’d punish you for being a fucking tease, punish you with my cock until your voice was hoarse from begging.
You don’t come back from that.
“I’ve sensed that you need space, so I’ve been taking them out.” The word space is ironic with him crowding all my space like he is. I grip his wrist, so he doesn’t get any ideas about moving away from me. “It’s Vancouver Aquarium Day so?—”
I don’t care about the fucking Vancouver Aquarium, especially not with his fingers tracing over the marks he left.
“Do you regret it?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. It’s clear he doesn’t, but I want to hear him say it, admit it out loud. I want more evidence that what I’m feeling is real.
“Kissing you? No. The marks? Fuck, no. I like my marks on you.”
Holy fuck.Breathe, Dash, breathe.
“Do you like them?” he asks in a new tone I’ve never heard. It’s a deep rumble, filled with desire.
“Yes,” I whisper. My heart’s gonna stop if it beats any faster. I don’t want to admit that, but it’s the unfortunate truth. Stacey’s my absolute weakness. I need … need to come up for air.
He steps away as if sensing my distress, but I don’t miss the satisfaction ballooning his chest. I know that look, it’s the same one he gets after a satisfying hit on the competition.
“You’ll have the house to yourself,” he says.
How can he leave me like this?
But maybe that’s for the best. I’ve only been in his presence for five minutes, after two weeks of avoiding him, and already I need a break. Separation usually has me clinging to him like he’s the air for my lungs. I thought we were intense before, this is a new level of inferno.
Maybe I’ll pull out the old journal. Haven’t done that in a while. I used to journal with Stacey. He’d make me a bowl of my favorite movie mish-mash—gummy bears, popcorn, and M&Ms—even though he’s always been disgusted by it, and we’d sit on the couch, my feet in his lap. He’d have to use a pillow as his writing surface, leaning it against my calf. It wasn’t conducive to neat writing, but he liked my feet there.
My fingers find my engagement ring, my reminder that I’m not a free agent. That kiss was way out of line.
They eat, and they leave. I can breathe again.
My journals aren’t where I left them. Or they could be, and I simply don’t remember where that place is. I rip my room apart. I search the house, even risking going into Stacey’s room where I know he’s staying with the twins. He hasn’t moved them to Casey’s room, a perfectly reasonable place for them to stay while he’s gone, and I’ve been meaning to inquire about why.
But I was busy not talking to Stacey.
I don’t need those journals. I could buy new ones. Hell, I’m sure there’s a great journaling app available for purchase.
