Page 65 of Cheap Shot
Cole reaches forward and hits the end button on the phone, his jaw tight. “You could’ve warned me.”
I smile, wondering if it would’ve made a difference, but knowing it wouldn’t. Cole doesn’t even want me to walk around wearing my leggings in the training room. Jealous is his middle name. I usually hate when guys try to go all caveman on me, but for some reason, when it’s Cole, it's fucking hot.
“But then I’d miss that adorable little tantrum.” I brush past him with a grin. “Admit it. You were jealous.”
He growls softly and follows me down the hall. “You’re going to pay for that.”
“Promises, promises.”
Cole’s footsteps echo behind me—sharp, quick, too controlled to be casual. Like he's trying not to look like he's chasing me, even though we both know he is.
Don’tneedto. His presence thrums like static against my spine, thickening the air between us. The echoing sounds of the training room fade as I head deeper into the arena. I have no idea where I’m going, just the need to find a space to be alone with Cole. The air is almost too warm. My skin is already prickling, not from the heat, but fromhim.
I don’t need to turn around to know he’s there. I can feel him getting closer to me, his body radiating heat as his presence wraps around me like a cloud of smoke. A moment later, his warm breath brushes the back of my neck. It’s hot, uneven, and smells faintly of mint and Gatorade and something inherentlyhim—something that short-circuits my brain every damn time.
“You’re in a mood today,” I murmur, my fingers curled around a doorknob, and open the door to a nondescript room, pretending to be unfazed. I don’t enter, just remain standing over the threshold, waiting for Cole to make his next move.
His voice is low, rough, and just barely restrained. “Yeah? Wonder why.”
I turn my head just enough to catch him in my peripheral—jaw set, lips pressed into a line, eyes full of fire and something dangerous. He’s standing so close, almost too close, as I turn around.
My shoulder grazes the solid plane of his chest, and I feel it—his heart thudding a fraction too fast. The tension coils between us, thick and electric, the spark that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. His lips part like he wants to speak but doesn’t trust what will come out.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, dragging heat across my skin like a match held just close enough to threaten.
“You really thought I was seeing someone else?” I ask, the question barely a whisper.
His eyes flick down—lips, throat, chest—and his whole body stiffens. “You were laughing with him. Sounded like heknowsyou.”
The wall of the room is at my back before I realize I’ve been maneuvered inside, his body bracketing mine like a secret. One hand rests against it above my head, while the other hovers near my hip, not quite touching. I feel the warmth of it, every hair on my arms lifting like my body’s preparing for contact that hasn’t even happened yet.
“You don’t get it,” he says, voice pitched low enough to vibrate in my bones. “I’ve been trying not to cross the line. But hearinghisvoice? Onyourphone? While you’re standing there, flushed and laughing like hemeanssomething to you?”
My breath catches. That pulse of jealousy running through him shouldn’t make my stomach dip the way it does, but God, itdoes. He’s not even touching me, and I feel owned. Branded.
“It was your brother, Cole,” I say, managing to string the words together as a frustrated, sound—something like a growl and a sigh mixed—bubble up his throat, making matters even worse.
Suddenly, I’m against the wall, his body caging mine like a secret he refuses to share. The cool plaster presses against my back, but the heat of his body melts everything else around us. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “The second I heard his voice and saw your smile? I wanted to tear the damn phone out of your hands.”
“Cole…”
His head dips until our foreheads touch, sweat-damp skin brushing mine, and the scent of him—cedar, salt, something dark and dizzying—floods my lungs. His hand finally lands on my waist, warm and firm, fingers flexing like he’s trying to stay in control. He’s not shaking, but he’sclose.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, breath fanning over my lips. It smells like spearmint and trouble.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in, brushing my mouth against his, just enough to taste the tension on his lips. “Close the door.”
The lock clicks behind me like a sealed promise, and then he kisses me—reallykisses me—and my brain goes white.
His mouth crashes into mine, lips parted, tongue bold and possessive. He tastes like heat and adrenaline and leftover cinnamon gum. The kiss is messy, unfiltered,and starving. Like he’s been dying of thirst, and I’m the only thing that’ll quench him. His hands slide around my waist, toying with the bottom of my crop top before splaying across the bare skin.
I gasp into his mouth, my back arching, chest pressing into his. His hand cups the nape of my neck, thumb stroking that spot just below my ear that makes my knees buckle.
“You don’tgetwhat you do to me,” he says into the curve of my jaw, voice rough as gravel.
