Page 19 of Playing the Pucking Game
He smirks. “Just give me the chance, babe. You know I’ll make it sting so good.”
I fucking hate that his words have my lower stomach tightening.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I thought he was bullshitting, but I know he’s not. His reputation alone is enough to prove that any bite—or anything for that matter—from Lincoln Storm would be more than good.
His lips part, and I internally groan in preparation for whatever lewd remark is going to spill free next. I swear, if he offers to make my day better by allowing me to ride his dick, I’ll forgo the coffee and launch the machine at his fucking head. There are coffee shops for a reason.
But what he does say makes me pause the very vivid images playing out in my head of the moment he tumbles to the floor, clutching his head.
“In the refrigerator.”
I narrow my eyes, confused by the words.
“Huh?” I say eloquently.
His expression turns smug, and it makes me want to punch him.
Why didn’t I force him to take me to a hotel last night?
“In the refrigerator,” he repeats.
Ripping my eyes from his, I scan the kitchen before focusing on the appliance in question.
Walking over, I pull the door open.
It’s practically empty, telling me what I already guessed: Linc isn’t much of a cook. But there, right in front of me, is a glass with what looks like a double shot of coffee in it.
“W-what’s this?”
He chuckles again, the deep rasp sending a shiver racing down my spine.
“Coffee, babe. Iced coffee, to be exact. Or at least, it will be once you add some creamer and ice. There are options in the door; I wasn’t sure what your preference was, so I ordered a few.”
Looking to my right, I scan the row of bottles.
Holy shit.
With the refrigerator door still open, the coldness rushing over my bare legs, I spin around and stare at Linc.
“You made me coffee and put it in the fridge?”
“I also ordered you creamer,” he states proudly. “At least tell me that one of them is right.”
My previous attitude vanishes, and my entire body deflates as emotion hits me out of nowhere. My nose itches and my eyes burn. I beg for the tears not to fill my eyes, but I’m powerless.
My sight gets blurry, but he’s as clear as day before me. “All of them are perfect,” I confess quietly. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, teasingly cupping his hand around his ear so he can hear better. “Can you repeat that?”
“Thank you, Linc. I really appreciate it.”
Our eyes hold for a moment, but the second I fear he can see more than I’m willing to share, I twist back around, grab the glass and one of the bottles of creamer, and complete my coffee.
Silence falls around us, but I know he’s watching. My skin is burning with his attention.
When I’m done, I rest my ass back against the counter opposite him and lift my glass to my lips.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in the scent of my coffee, letting it ground me for a moment before taking my first sip.
