Page 72 of Break the Ice
No. No, no...
His spit. Her spit. My spit.
Our spit.
Fuck, fuck… fuck.
This is ridiculous.
It’s wrong. I shouldn’t feel this way right now. They shouldn’t affect me like this. Finley, Jayden...
He’s my best friend. My partner on the ice. A safety I rely on.
I can’t allow myself to go down this path. Especially not with Ryker around. Maybe it’s because of our encounter today, and all the shit it’s dredged up. And now I’m all messed up and reading into everything more than I should. Because this is Jayden, and I know he’s open with his sexuality, and he cares about me.
He’s been my shield from the moment we met, so of course I care about him. Of course, I have feelings for him. Right? It doesn’t mean anything.
We’re friends.
Period.
“Deal?” He rumbles. His voice is hoarse, kind of breathless, and it makes the buzz inside me stronger.
It takes me forever to find my voice. Finley’s stare is burning into me, my body is broiling in anticipation, and Jayden’s biting his lip—licking it like he can taste the mix of the three of us squelching between our palms.
What does it taste like to him?
What would it taste like to me?
Is she thirsty for it, too?
Finley looks it. Her chest is matching the rise and fall of Jayden’s. Of mine.
And her pink tongue swipes at her lips. Like his. Like mine.
“Deal,” I croak, dragging my gaze from Finley to Jayden, and back. Back and forth.
That magnificent flush on her ears and cheeks has spread to her delicate throat, all the way down her neck to the swell of her breasts, set to squeeze out of the square neckline of the dress she’s wearing.
“So…” Fin starts with an audible gulp, snapping my eyes back to hers. “You have one guess left.”
I’ve known the answer from the moment I saw all the vowels listed beside the hangman.
Rhythms.
Clearly, I’m an idiot because as I’m about to say it, I pause. Looking between them, I take in their expectant expressions.
All I want is to see them smile. Big. I’m consumed by the need as I guess, “D.”
Yeah, I’m an idiot, but the victorious gleam on Jayden’s face—that cocky, gloating grin—that he shares with Finley is worth the loss.
“The answer is rhythms, Elijah,” Finley titters with nose-wrinkling glee.
It’s one of her favorite words to play along with zinc and syndrome. I’m totally captivated by their delighted expressions when Jayden squeezes my hand, still grasped in his.
I don’t know how many times we’ve high-fived or shaken hands before. They’re countless. Yet, it’s only now that I notice the way they fit together. Seamless. Snug. The golden hue of his tanned skin making mine appear lighter as his thick fingers trace the underside of my wrist when we pull apart. Our hands sliding with the slick residue of the spit on our palms, rubbing into the rough lines like a balm smoothing over the story that has been and that will be.
Of what itcouldbe.
