Page 40 of The Official Problem
You do know you can buy your own fucking condoms, right?
Matthieu
That’s not what I meant, and you know it.
Matthieu turned his phone off silent and tossed it onto the chair by the window, out of reach so he wouldn’t spend every five seconds checking it or glaring at their thread, willing those three little dots to appear.
Instead, he tugged a book from his bag, flipped to the dog-eared page, and tried really hard to focus on the words in front of him—some cheesy spy novel. Matthieu had guessed the twist a hundred pages before it happened. Yet, the prose was mindless enough that he got sucked into the banter between the hotshot agent and the Russian business mogul he was supposed to be extracting secrets from. In a different kind of book, Matthieu figured the two would’ve fallen in love. Their on-page chemistry seemed ready to blow; much to his disappointment, they stayed boringly platonic.
He didn’t read much. Sure, he spent plenty of time on planes and in hotel rooms, which should have given him ample time. But his head was usually too loud for it, to-do lists, worries, concerns, and guilt always spinning around his brain. Lately, that constant buzz had quieted, not gone—he doubted it everwould be—but dulled somehow. Muted, like his thoughts were trapped behind a translucent veil.
The phone pinged loudly from across the room, yanking him out of his thoughts. He tried to get up slowly, strolling over as if the message didn’t matter, as if he hadn’t been waiting on it for hours. It was a total failure; he practically sprinted across the room.
Unknown
712.
Warm-up is in an hour.
I’m ‘prepared.’
Matthieu was out the door in a heartbeat, barely remembering to grab his key card or shove on his shoes. Their rooms were conveniently on the same floor. One glance down the hallway showed it was blessedly empty. He just had to make it a few doors down without running into one of Kieran’s teammates.
He’d barely knocked once on 712 when the door flew open. A strong hand yanked him inside, a muscled, half-naked body shoving him up against the wall. Kieran’s skin was flushed a delicious pink, eyes wild, wet hair pushed off his face to frame that delicious jaw. A cocky smirk curled at the corner of those addictive lips. Matthieu couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss that smirk or slap it off his face.
“You wear glasses?” Kieran chuckled.
Matthieu, to his horror, realized he’d left so fast he was still wearing his readers. He reached to pull them off, but Kieran batted his hand away.
“Leave them on. I like them.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you like,” Matthieu hissed.
Kieran didn’t even flinch. He leaned in and ran his tongue across Matthieu’s collarbone. “Rough day?”
He didn’t give Matthieu a chance to respond. Kieran’s lips crashed into his, frantic and bruising, sending want and need barreling through him. Matthieu thought he could kiss Kieran forever. He wanted to walk him back to the bed, lay him down, press his lips to every inch of him until he trembled. There wasn’t time for that. That wasn’t why he was here—not what they’d agreed on.
The agreement was simple. Matthieu could use Kieran to feel good. When the world felt heavy and overwhelming, this could be the one thing Matthieu could control—an outlet, a way to lose himself for an hour or so.
Realistically, he knew that wasn’t possible. If he let himself think too long, he’d realize the only outcome of this arrangement was one of them, most likely him, getting hurt.
That was exactly why he wouldn’t let himself think about it.
He’d pretend the reason he’d sought out Kieran today was the call from the bank telling him they’d denied his loan application. He’d pretend this was just stress relief after he went back on his word, never to ask Alexei for money.
The truth? He’d booked this hotel room days ago. He’d pored over his schedule, looking for the easiest time for him to be alone with Kieran again. He hadn’t even been able to wait until after the game.
He was already in dangerous territory.
Matthieu pulled back with a groan, head thudding against the wall, eyes slipping shut. He needed to get it together. Something about Kieran’s presence made him forget what a terrible idea it was to feel something for this man again.
“Do you need to talk about it?” Kieran muttered into Matthieu’s hair, still breathless himself.
“That’s not why I’m here.” He hadn’t meant to snap, but harshness was the only armor his poor, battered heart had left.
Kieran shifted away, hands dropping quickly from where they’d been curled in Matthieu’s shirt. Matthieu opened his eyes in time to catch Kieran’s expression twist, something that looked like hurt, flipping into that practice, mischievous smile that never failed to get his blood pumping.
He knew it for what it was—false confidence designed to hide how Kieran really felt. Not that Matthieu could fault him. Wasn’t his own abrasiveness moments ago the same damn thing?
