Page 135 of Hockey Halloween
“Now that your special guest is gone, are you joining us?” Toby asks me. My friends are in the middle of a charades competition.
“I’m good,” I state nonchalantly. “I’ll refill the punch.”
“We’ve moved on to bourbon,” Toby says. “Pour yourself one.”
“I’m actually exhausted,” I say with a half-smile, fluffing a couch pillow that definitely didn’t need fluffing. “I’ll tidy up and get going.”
“Do you have an early morning practice too?” Anna teases, wiggling her brows.
“What? No, of course not.”
“I’m glad you’re a director, Ligaya, because you are seriously the worst actor,” Kai says with a chuckle.
I slump down onto the couch, my arms crossed over my chest as I sink into the cushion. They’re right. I’m about as subtle as a flashing Las Vegas sign.
“He’s really into you,” Toby states, looking at me over the rim of his glass.
“For a one-night stand, I guess. I’m not mad about it,” I confirm, tracing a loose thread on the arm of the couch. My voice is calm, but inside, my mind sprints in circles.
“What are you waiting for?” Toby asks.
He doesn't wait for a response. He jumps off his seat, grabs my coat, and pulls me to my feet. “Get out of here,” he urges while steering me toward the door.
Ligaya
While alone in my car, I think about all the ways this could go wrong. Tristan is coming over. Tomyplace. To hang out. To have a drink. Possibly to sleep with me. Possibly to see my messy sock drawer and my conditioner graveyard in the shower.
Oh, god, did I clean up the kitchen before I left?
I haven’t had a man spend the night in over a year. Not since John and I broke up. And even that relationship, which technically lasted two years, had a fraction of the passion Tristan and I have shared in a costume closet or against a kitchen counter.
What if the chemistry fizzles once our clothes come off and he realizes I’m not exactly a sex goddess? What if I get a leg cramp? What if I do something stupid or make an embarrassing sound?
The old Tristan would never miss the chance to make fun of me.
I know I’m spiraling. I talk a big game, but I’ve never had a one-night stand.
He’s standing by my door when I pull into my driveway. On autopilot, I walk on the porch to let us in, willing my hands to stop shaking. By the time we enter the house, I’m both dazed and nervous. It’s an awkward combination, resulting in my ramblings about pouring him a drink. Isn’t that what good hosts do?
I open a bottle of red and immediately slosh it onto the counter.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“No, they’re—” I pause to assess my mess. “Yeah. They are.”
Tristan doesn’t make a joke or flash a cocky grin. He simply grabs a paper towel to clean up the wine.
“We don’t have to do anything, Ligaya.”
I love the way my name sounds breathy when he says it. But the message wakes me up. I put the wine down and turn to him.
“If you don’t at least kiss me, I’ll be pissed,” I blurt honestly.
“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he jests while stepping closer and offering a brilliant smile.
Now that he’s in front of me, my ability to take risks resurfaces. The doubts that made me spiral on the ride here vanish. I pull him down. Tristan’s mouth parts in invitation and his hands cradle my head. We crush our lips without restraint and sweep our tongues without thought. We might still have our clothes on, but every stroke of his tongue and the solid hardness of his body feels incredible.
Without warning, I’m lifted and carried to the couch. I straddle his hips, pressing my aching center against his hard bulge.
