Page 35 of The First Kind of Love
Fulton eats the distance between us, his large, hard-ridged, hulking frame dwarfing my small one, so close to me that my sex-fueled brain is considering taking my frustration out on him in a verydifferentway. His heady gaze lingers on the triangle of my throat, and I get the overwhelming urge to kiss him with raw abandon, shed both of our towels, and engage in round two of the Orgasm Olympics.
“You just look too good right now,” he groans exasperatedly, adjusting his hips as discreetly as he can.
Resist, Shiloh, resist! You’re a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to satisfy her needs, even though that man is nothing short of a hunk. Remember how he banished you to the vending machine with not even the clothes on your back? Make him pay. Make him beg. Give him the cold shoulder.
“I’m mad at you,” I growl, though with little vehemence.
I don’t think Fulton views me as a threat for a single second. All he does is snare me in his arms, pull my body flush against his front, and bend down slightly to brush the tips of our noses together.
“Can you at least be mad at me while I kiss you?”
11
LOVE IS A SILENT KILLER
FULTON
Shiloh plops down on the bed with a French fry half-lodged in her mouth, bundled in a fuzzy robe that she donned after her second shower of the day to get the germs off her unintentional exile. I feel terrible that I locked her outside the room for thirty minutes. I honest to God didn’t hear any knocking. Then again, I do like to belt Celine Dion at the top of my lungs when I’m lathering myself up, so that’s probably why.
I watch with pinched breath as she chomps off an impressively large bite of her hamburger. Even in the jaundiced light of the hotel room, she shines brighter than the roadmap of stars sprawling over our balcony, backdropped against a slate sky that would normally summon a baptism of rain if it wasn’t for Cabo’s torrid climate.
I don’t have an appetite, even though I ordered nearly one of everything off the menu. It’s the nerves…I think…which is weird, because surely I should feel comfortable around her by now, right?
I’m not sure why something as mundane as sharing a meal makes my heart cavort faster than being intimate with her, butit does. I get overwhelmed that she exists, you know? And just being next to her, watching her inhale food…there’s a simplicity in it that I’ve missed amongst the whirlwind of hockey, after-parties, interviews, and sponsorships.
“Are you always this nervous?” she asks me out of nowhere, making a decent dent in her burger.
I blink, flush, then resort to rubbing my nape. “I’m not nervous.”
There’s a little smear of ketchup by the corner of her mouth, though she doesn’t realize it’s there. “Fulton, your tongue was inside my cunt forty minutes ago. And now you’re sitting far away from me like I’ve got some kind of contagious disease.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, anxiety trickling into my empty stomach like cave water off cambered limestone. I didn’t realize the distance was so noticeable. But she’s right—there’s practically a ravine between the two of us, and I get this urge at the tips of my fingers like I need to drag my nails against her soft, flawless skin. A predatory instinct.
“Don’t be sorry. Just come closer.”
Closer. Closer is…good? Bad? My vision practically blacks out like the sequence after an explosion in an action movie. Gleaning confidence is going to take time, but I obey her, consciously leaving at least a respectable sliver. Though knowing Shiloh’s stubbornness and her inexplicable superpower to see right through me, it’s not surprising when she demolishes my act of chivalry by sitting a centimeter away from my body…in nothing but flimsy cotton. From this angle, the neckline of her robe droops low enough to show me the tops of her breasts, and my eyes immediately slide to anywhere else in the room.
I’m suddenly ravenous, but it’s not the food that calls to me.
Shiloh’s staring at me so intently that her gaze could rive concrete. “Have you dealt with anxiety your whole life?”
Jeez. I don’t usually like talking about myself, but you’d think she just asked me to kill the president.
It feels like I’ve swallowed a bucketful of grease. “Unfortunately. I, uh, don’t remember a time in my life when anxiety wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. My childhood was great, thanks to my mom, but I can’t remember any of it. It’s like there’s this mental block standing between me and my memories. I think it’s because I was constantly worrying as a kid. I could never just be in the moment, you know?”
She stops chewing, and the silence is unnerving. “Did something…bad…happen?”
“No, but my life was always this roller coaster of fear and unease. School was a big stressor for me, and it certainly didn’t help that some subjects were significantly harder for me to understand than they were for the other kids in my class. And to widen the gap, making friends was never my strong suit. I didn’t—and still don’t—know how to read social cues or situations. I speak before I think. I just have this bad habit of making everything awkward.”
That ketchup is still there, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and wipe it away. Not because it’s bothering me, but because I want an excuse to touch her.
“You don’t make everything awkward,” she reassures, sympathy slashing across her face.
I’m not sure if she’s reading my mind right now, but she stretches her arm out toward me, and the warmth of her hand is like a conduit that sucks all the negativity out of my body.
Brow puckering, I give her aseriously?look.
She shrugs. “I’m awkward too. It’s not a bad thing, Fulton. I think you care a lot about how people perceive you, and you prioritize that over your own comfort. You shouldn’t have to make that choice.”
