Page 44 of Price of Victory
“Just warm in here,” Rhett managed, his voice slightly strained. He shot me a warning look that only made me want to push further.
“Maybe you should get some air,” I suggested innocently, all while continuing my torturous caress. “Fresh air can be…good for you.”
The conversation continued around us, but I was completely focused on Rhett’s reactions, on the way his body responded to my touch, even as he tried desperately to maintain his composure. This was reckless, stupid, exactly the kind of behavior that could expose us both, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
The need to touch him, to claim him in some small way, even in this public setting, was overwhelming every rational thought I had. And the way he was struggling to maintain control, the flush spreading down his neck, the slight tremor in his hands, it was all driving me toward the edge of my own composure.
“I should head out,” Rhett said finally, standing and reaching for his backpack. “I’ve got Professor Martinez’s class in twenty minutes.”
“Contemporary Latin American Literature?” I asked and immediately regretted revealing that I knew his schedule.
“Yeah. How did you…”
“Lucky guess. I’m taking it, too, just later in the week.” Another half-truth, but it seemed to satisfy his teammates’ curiosity.
“Cool. Maybe we can compare notes sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
The group began to disperse, guys heading off to classes and practice and whatever else filled their afternoons. I should have left with them, should have said goodbye and gone about my day like a normal person. Instead, I found myself following Rhett as he headed toward the exit, unable to let him go without at least a few more minutes alone.
“Rhett,” I called out when we were far enough from his teammates to speak privately. “Wait up.”
The corners of his lips ticked upward as he turned around. “Following me to the lecture?”
“To the end of the world, if you’ll wait there for me on your knees,” I purred.
Rhett’s eyes widened with surprise, mouth forming a little O of speechlessness.
“I was thinking. Come over to my place tonight. I’ll cook for you if you want,” I told him. “Besides, nobody knows us there. We don’t have to keep it quiet.”
Rhett laughed. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t worry that pretty head of yours,” I said with a naughty grin, then braced myself for the shoulder punch I totally deserved. “See you around eight?”
Before he could respond, before I could do something really stupid like kiss him in the middle of the campus dining hall, I turned and walked away with a grin. He didn’t have a chance to say no. But I could feel his eyes on me until I disappeared around the corner, and that knowledge carried me through the rest of the afternoon like a drug.
I was supposed to be keeping this simple, supposed to be maintaining the careful distance that would protect both of us from the complications of whatever this was becoming. Instead, I was falling harder every day, becoming more possessive, more territorial, more willing to take risks just to be near him.
One of these days, I would have to sit across from my father, and I would have to tell him. Because I didn’t fool myself into thinking this would be over soon. I didn’t look at an easy escape route of this thing fizzling away and me never having to confront my father about my choices.
The difficult part was still ahead of me, but I knew it was unavoidable.
SEVENTEEN
AIDEN
The first timeRhett came to my apartment, he’d stood in the doorway for a full minute, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and marble countertops with something between awe and discomfort. “This place is bigger than my entire dorm floor,” he’d said, and I’d felt that familiar stab of guilt about the privilege I’d never questioned.
But by the third visit, he was making himself coffee in my kitchen like he belonged there. By the fifth, he’d claimed the left side of my massive bed and started leaving a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. By November, when the leaves outside my windows had turned brilliant shades of gold and crimson, it had become routine.
Sunday mornings were ours. He’d show up at my door with coffee and whatever pastries he’d grabbed from a café along the way, his skin still flushed from the shower and his eyes bright with the kind of happiness I’d never seen him wear around anyone else. We’d spend hours talking about everything and nothing, our conversations meandering from hockey strategy to books he was reading for his literature classes to my half-formed thoughts about what I actually wanted to do with my life.
Those weeks felt like falling into something deeper than I’d ever imagined possible. It wasn’t just the sex, though that continued to be revelation after revelation of how perfectly we fit together. It was the way he challenged me when I was being arrogant, called me out when I was performing instead of being genuine. It was the way he listened when I talked about the pressure from my family, really listened, without judgment or advice unless I asked for it.
And it was the way I found myself holding him up when the weight of his own expectations became too much. The night before scouts were coming to watch a game, when he’d been wound so tight I thought he might snap, I’d spent hours just stroking his head and telling him stories about the stupidest mistakes I’d made on ice until he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep.
We were good together. Better than good. We challenged each other to be more honest, more vulnerable, more real than either of us had ever been with anyone else. When we were together, the corporate rivalry between our families felt like ancient history, something that belonged to a different world entirely.
