My eyes widen when reality sets in. “Shit. Meathead can’t have gay journalist sneaking out of his room in the morning. What was I thinking?”
Ollie grabs my wrist as I try to make an escape from the bed. “You think I’m a meathead?”
“If the skate fits.”
“I don’t know how to feel about that.”
I sigh. “I don’t mean it in the brainless jock kind of way. I mean, I joke about you being brainless, but we both know you’re not. You’re actually quite articulate.”
“That totally feels like you’re calling me a smart dumb person.”
“Hey, you think I’m a bloodsucking journalist when I’ve proved I’m anything but.”
He nods. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you that. And it’s true you probably shouldn’t be in here, but I want you. Uh, here, I mean. I want you to stay, but I … umm …”
There’s the awkward guy I met six months ago.
The hand on my wrist relaxes, but his thumb makes circles on my palm that send a shiver through me. “If you keep sleeping next to me, I’m probably gonna do something I shouldn’t.”
I blink at him a few times, still a little out of it. Do something he shouldn’t. Like me? He should do me.
“Fuck, totally do something you shouldn’t” falls out of my mouth.
“Wait, wha—” He doesn’t get his whole sentence out before I’m moving in close and capturing the mouth I kissed all those months ago.
Can I blame the sleepy haze on why I’m throwing myself at this man who up until not that long ago hated me? Maybe.
But, damn, how many times have I fantasized about these lips since the first time this happened? His playoff beard scrapes my skin, not quite long enough yet to be soft, but his mouth is hot and messy and all consuming.
He sucks in a breath, but a strong hand cups the back of my head, holding my face to his.
Everything clicks into place as if making out with Ollie Strömberg is the only thing that makes sense in the world, while at the same time, everything wrong with the situation tarnishes it around the edges.
Hooking up with a hockey player: bad idea.
Closeted hockey player hooking up with a journalist in his hotel room where his entire team is staying: terrible idea.
Running my hand down said hockey player’s hard chest and glorious muscles: fucking brilliant idea. Or stupid, because I know we have to stop it. But right now, I’m going with brilliant.
Ollie grabs me around my waist and pulls me on top of him. His tablet gets thrown to the floor, hitting it with a thud. If it were mine, I’d be worried about it breaking, but Ollie doesn’t give a damn. He only kisses me harder and pushes his tongue into my mouth.
It reminds me of the kiss we shared six months ago, only this is way hotter. And more horizontal.
Horizontal is good.
Another brilliant idea.
Ollie’s hand slips between us, and his fingers make their way under my shirt.
I shamelessly grind over the hardness in his pants, and his free hand goes to my ass.
Breaking our lips apart, Ollie breathes heavy. “Damn, I’ve been thinking about this for six months.”
Wait, what? I pull back and stare down at him. “Even when you found out who I was?”
“Especially then. I think my cock thought I despised it with how many hate jerk-off sessions I had thinking about you.”
“Aww, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” My sarcasm might be real, but the image of Ollie getting off to the thought of me makes me both pause and want to rip his clothes off.
“Kiss me again.” Ollie leans up to take my mouth. He doesn’t quite reach because I bring my hand up and put my fingers over his lips.
“What are we doing? We can’t do this.”
“Can we … not think about that right now?” To emphasize his point, Ollie rolls his hips beneath me.
“Fuck. Best argument ever. Let our future selves deal with this shit.” I move my hand and kiss him again, and I find myself in a heavy make-out session as if we were teenagers.
Ollie doesn’t try to take it further, just keeps teasing me with his perfect lips and probing tongue.
Needing more skin, I sit up, straddling him. My hands bunch in his T-shirt and push the hem up toward his throat. “Goddamn it,” I whisper, and Ollie smiles.
His body is insane. Muscles on muscles and decorated in tattoos across his chest that stop just above his pecs.
Mi Vida. My fingers trail over the words written across his chest, but he grabs my wrist to stop me.
I want to ask what they mean and why he’s suddenly staring at me with widened eyes, but a dark bruise catches my eye on his side. “The hit you took in third?”
“I’ve had worse. It’s fine.”