Page 85 of Flagrant Foul
Acid is slowly neutralized. “I guess I could go for a steak.”
He starts heading toward his bedroom to get ready, but stops and doubles back. “I forgot to tell you,” he says, pointing to the kitchen counter, “something arrived for you.”
I don’t remember ordering anything, but the mailer is addressed to me, so I must have. I rip it open and do mybest to swallow a chuckle. I ordered it weeks ago under extreme duress and forgot all about it.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s nothing.” That only serves to pique his curiosity.
“Show me.”
I shake out a boxy black T-shirt and hold it up for him to read what’s printed on it:Goalies Are Weird.
“Goalies are weird?” His jaw drops, lips forming a big square of indignation. “Goalies areweird?Where the hell did you get that idea?” He sniffs and tilts his head back. His lips curl into a sinfully pretty smile. “It’s ’cause I talk to my fish, isn’t it?”
I shake my head, smiling.
“Is it because I like things in threes? Because if it is, you should know rituals have been scientifically proven to improve performance.” I shake my head again, smiling harder. His brow creases. “If it’s because of the way I dance on the ice, Sev, that is ridiculous. Itoldyou, I feel the music in my hips. I can’t help it.”
He’s so adorable and so gorgeous. I take his face in my hands and kiss him hard on the mouth.
“I ordered it a while back,” I explain, “during the erm, seduction. You know, when you were luxuriating in the apartment in sky-blue boxer briefs that cooked my brain to a crisp… I thought if I got it for you, you might wear it, and I’d be able to be around you and sane at the same time.”
“Oh, Sev,” he says, shaking his head sympathetically. “How you underestimate me.”
He takes the T-shirt from me and lays it on the kitchen counter, taking care to smooth it out nice and flat. He gets the kitchen scissors from the top drawer and begins hacking at the T-shirt with an excess of self-assurance.
“What are you doing?” I ask dumbly.
“Taking a page from your playbook, bad boy.”
In a matter of minutes, the T-shirt is in tatters, sleeveless and profoundly cropped, and Teddy is standing in the kitchen in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
I’m not sure, but I think I mumble something about déjà vu as he pulls the remaining scrap of the garment over his head.
He’s been liberal with his alterations, that’s all I can say. The armholes are long and deep, perfectly accentuating the balls of his shoulders and the swell of his biceps. When he moves, I’m treated to glimpses of his armpits and flashes of milky flesh that come tantalizingly close to exposing his nipples.
“Is this part of the seduction?” I can tell from my speech that he’s knocked twenty, if not thirty, points off my IQ.
“Why? Are you feeling seduced, handsome?” He says handsome like it’s about my looks. Like it’s a compliment. Like it’s something he means.
“A little bit,” I croak.
I wasn’t aware of it before, but as he starts moving, I become conscious that music is playing. It comes at me from far away at first, quietly traveling under the floorboards, closing the space between Teddy and me. The beat enters my body through my hands and feet, spilling daydreams directly into my veins. Synthesizers and layered keyboards thread vintage sounds together, creating an intoxicating rhythm.
“What’s with this old-ass song?” I ask.
Teddy raises a lazy shoulder. “I hear it at Mae’s all the time. I like it.”
Gary Wright’s husky voice scratches lightly at the back of my neck as “Dream Weaver” winds magic around the room. Around Teddy. Around me. A gauzy ribbon of sound tightens, bringing us closer together. The chorus builds and finds its way to Teddy’s hips. It turns them to liquid, rolling them loosely in a slow, controlled figure eight. His abs tense. Lines form on his belly. I circle his waist and pull him as close as I can get him. Dreamy blue eyes whisper my name.
When I kiss him, the ground beneath me gives way and I feel like I’m falling. Through floors. Through foundations. Through Earth’s surface.
“Lose the underwear,” I say when he breaks free of my grip and strides purposefully toward the bedroom. “But keep the top on.”
I’m a little lightheaded, most likely because for a while there, I was the one with my head dangling off the edge of the bed as Teddy fed me his cock. I’m sitting up now, leaning against the headboard, trying to find the motivation to get up and go to dinner.
Teddy waltzes in wearing jeans and the black tank he wore the day I moved in. He has the chain he wore that day around his neck too. I love it. It’s a full circle moment. A reminder of how much has changed, and how much has stayed the same.
