Page 40 of The Best Parts of Him
“Guess it doesn’t hurt.” A slow smile spreading across his face, Ryland added, “Or maybe you enjoy the pain?”
Dabbs raised an eyebrow at him.
Ryland raised his hands. “Hey, I don’t judge. To each his own and all that.” He stood, his movements effortless, and washed his hands again. Dabbs should’ve stepped aside to give him more space.
Instead, he stayed right where he was, inches from Ryland’s hard body, laughing eyes, and teasing smile. He smelled woodsy—probably the soap he’d used when he’d showered after rehab—and a little bit like Dabbs’ apple bread.
“You know,” Ryland said. “I read an article once that stated one in ten men get hard when someone changes their bandage.”
Dabbs had to laugh at the ridiculousness. “No, you didn’t.”
“I could’ve.”
Ryland dried his hands and leaned a hip against the vanity, facing Dabbs. As their gazes met, the air between them thickened. Heated. The room shrank, holding them together in a pocket of space that was full of possibilities.
Those possibilities ran through Dabbs’ head like a flip book to the tune of his pulse thrumming in his ears.
He wanted. To touch, to taste. To break down his own boundaries and leap.
Ryland’s hazel eyes went heavy-lidded. He leaned into Dabbs, the heat of his chest against Dabbs’ bare shoulder sending his thoughts swimming.
Downstairs, one of the dogs barked. Then the other. Both of them.
The doorbell rang.
Dabbs swallowed hard to wet his dry throat. “Going to get that?”
Ryland tilted his head slightly. “I’d rather finish whatever’s going on in this bathroom.”
The doorbell rang again.
Dabbs stared at Ryland expectantly.
“Fine,” Ryland grumbled, stepping away and taking all the heat in the room with him. “But this isn’t over.”
No, Dabbs suspected it wasn’t.
Ryland readjusted himself in his jeans as he went downstairs and cursed the terrible timing of their doorbell ringer.
Dabbs had been this close to kissing him. He was sure of it.
Grumbling to himself, he spotted the empty apple bread bag on the counter on his way to the door and quickly tossed it in the garbage bin—Dabbs didn’t need to know that he’d finished the entire loaf in only one day.
Dabbs had been right about it though. It was divine. There was cinnamon in there, as well as actual apple chunks. Ryland had removed one of the loaves from the freezer to let it defrost for tomorrow, and he was already looking into how to restock Dabbs’ inventory.
Surely someone he knew in Toronto would be willing to accept the delivery and then ship it here?
“Castle, Cosmo,” he said to the dogs. “Settle.”
They quieted, though they stayed nearby to greet their visitor.
Ryland jerked the door open, ready to sign for a delivery or tell the landscaper that no, they didn’t need their services, thanks.
But it was the Trailblazers’ director of player engagement who stood on Dabbs’ front porch.
“Ryland Zervudachi,” Roman Kinsey said, stepping into the house without waiting for an invitation. “Nice to meet you in person.”
“You too,” Ryland said, wiping his suddenly damp palms on his thighs.
