Page 18 of Stick Fight

“Are you okay?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Yeah, sorry. My baby toe thought it would be fun to tango with the coffee table.”

I work to stifle a laugh. “You can turn the light on.”

“Are you laughing?”

“No. Well, yes, but the tango part got me. Sorry.”

“Jesus,” he groans. “If this swells, I’ll never get my skate on. I thought I’d be taken out by Calgary’s wicked defense, not IKEA.”

Then… hiccup.

“Your night is just getting worse, Roman.”

I hear the fridge open, followed by another curse, and another hiccup.

“Come get a drink,” I say, sitting up and flicking on my lamp. I uncap the bottle of water, and a moment later, he’s at my door.

“Here.”

I hold the bottle out, but he just stands there, chest rising and falling, his big frame practically swallowing up the doorway.

“Roman?”

He exhales sharply. “I think they’re gone.”

I cock my head in confusion, and that’s when I realize he’s only wearing boxers. Low, form-fitting boxers that cling to every cut muscle and leave verylittle to the imagination. My gaze slides down, counting his hard abs like it’s my job, and when I finally make it lower, my imagination goes absolutely off the rails.

Oh boy.

Roman swallows hard. “Um,” he begins, his voice low and rough. His gaze darkens as his eyes rake over me, and I swear the room temperature spikes ten degrees. As my body heats up, I kick the blankets off and his eyes move to my thighs. Everything about the way he looks at me makes me feel wanted, needed, desirable. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a man look at me with such hunger. With his focus still on my legs, he continues with, “How… how’s the bed?”

My pulse jumps. Breathing suddenly feels impossible. I run my hands over the mattress. “Soft and lumpy. Just the way you like it,” I manage to say, even though my brain is short-circuiting. And while I have no idea what tomorrow brings, tonight, there’s one thing I do know. Maybe I can make his night—and mine—a little better.

“Want to feel?” I ask.

His eyes darken, and his breath comes fast and shallow.

“Fuck me.”

“Or better yet…how about me,” I whisper, biting down on my lower lip.

5

Roman

Istand in Gabby’s doorway, my brain completely stalled out, as she sits on her bed, looking so warm, so fucking inviting, I have no idea what to do. Which is crazy, because normally I know exactly what to do with a woman in my bed. I am, after all, a hot-blooded man in his twenties.

But this is Gabby and she’s been through a lot tonight, and while I’m an asshole, I’m the best kind of asshole. I once heard Kalen say that, and why am I thinking about Kalen when I have the hottest girl on the planet—dressed in my T-shirt—sitting on my bed?

Fuck me.

“Or better yet…how about me.”

Jesus Christ, I can’t do this. She’s a hot mess and does not need sex from me tonight. But then again, judging from the suggestive look on her face, I’d say she does.

“Gabby,” I begin quietly, my voice low, but my words are crackling with electricity. I take a slow, deliberate step toward her, and every inch I close in feels like a game I’m about to lose. I need to keep a measure of distance, because if I get close enough to breathe in her sweet vanilla scent, or feel the warmth of her silky legs against mine—did I mention I’m a leg guy—my defense will crack like glass on ice. I swallow hard, trying to keep my game strong, but every step feels like I’m skating on a power play, and the pressure is building.

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