Page 68 of Revolve
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help my smile. By the time I’m dressed and out the door, I realize I have a problem following orders. I know it, because after seeing my dad’s message and Lidia’s, I’m driving to the hockey house. They’ve got a black wreath on their door and very early Halloween decorations on the lawn. Skeletons are on top of one another, each in a different position. Even the scarecrows on the corner are getting it on.
I hesitated to come here. After last night, I realized I don’t actually know the definition ofcasual. Dylan’s mouth on mine, his whispers against my skin, his rough hands on my thighs—the memory heats my skin, but I push it away. We’re partners, and skating always come first.
“Hey, Sierra.” A bleary-eyed blond opens the door. Cole, I think.
“Is Dylan home?” I ask.
“Probably. Other than skating with you, he’s been home a lot lately. It’s weird,” he says. “First door down the hall and knock just in case. For your own good.” With that, he vanishes into the dark basement.
Inside, the house is unnervingly silent, a stark contrast to my previous visit with hallway mini golf and a cranked-up TV.
When I knock on his door, it creaks open on its own. A normal person would just wait in the hall, but I don’t have time. The room greets me with a jumble of disarray: an unmade bed, a desk with an open textbook, and a overflowing laundry hamper. On the dresser, there’s a single photograph—a snapshot of Dylan in mid-spin with ablue-eyed blonde. I assume she’s his sister, though they don’t resemble each other.
“Find anything interesting?”
I fumble with the picture frame when Dylan emerges from the steaming bathroom. It’s hard to stop the onslaught of memories that runs through my mind like a very explicit digital diary. Dylan’s in only a towel. I try to look anywhere butthere, but end up looking at his mouth, feeling the ghost of his lips on my heated skin. And the faint hickeys he left somewhere lower.
“No. But I bet I would if I ran a black light around your room,” I reply. There. We’re back to normal again.
His gaze drags down my body, and a smirk tugs at his lips. “Try my car.”
“I think you mean your jeans.”Oh my God. Shut up, Sierra.I clear my throat. “Uh, do you have any plans today?”
Dylan sighs as though he’s bearing the weight of the sun. “Should’ve known you’re the clingy type, Romanova. I mean, showing up at my house on our day off?”
“Clingy?” I scoff. “You’re the one who barely let go of me last night.”
“I happen to recall you begging me to touch you while you rubbed your needy cunt all over me. Was that right, or am I the one that needs my hearing checked?”
A lash of heat hits my body, and I fist my hands by my sides. “Don’t know. It was just one kiss.”
“Careful, Sierra, or I’m going to think you want another.”
“I think one was enough.”
He steps closer. I try not to focus on the singular drop of water that drips from his damp hair, onto his shoulder, and down to his pecs. “Was it that unmemorable for you? I didn’t even make the top five?”
Casual. Partners.I need to remember that. Dylan’s been with girls before, enough that a night that was new and charged and weirdlyrevolutionary for me could be another Tuesday for him. I’m not stupid, I know people hook up in college on a whim; it’s essentially a rite of passage for some. For Dylan, I know that’s true.
I shrug. “Guess not.”
He looks at me like he knows I’m lying. So damn cocky. “Who’s number one?”
You. “Want me to make you a list?”
“Yes.” He’s serious. But then his gaze falls to my hands, and something in those brown eyes softens. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
Dylan gestures toward my hands. “Clench your fists.”
I look down at the crescent-shaped impressions from my nails embedded in my palms. The sight brings back memories—times when my palms would be stained with blood after struggling through a difficult move or the agonizing wait for scores after performances. When I was paired with Justin, he preferred to remain focused and detached, unwilling to give me a warm touch. So I’d resort to clenching my fists, trying to keep it together on my own.
“Didn’t realize you were tracking my every move,” I say, but Dylan’s expression remains serious, thoughtful even. He reaches for the desk drawer between us and pulls out a pen.
“Palm,” he orders.
“Huh?”
