Page 44 of Facing Off
I push off the covers, trying not to be affected by the sight—and failing. A tremor runs through my hands.
My bag must be here somewhere. All I need to do is find it, then I don’t have to dwell on thinking it’s considerate of him to… What? Follow the concussion protocols soclosely and watch over me? I swing my legs over and step down…
Right on my bag. It makes a loud noise.
“Sonya?” I snap my head up and see Hughes rubbing his eyes. “You awake?”
“No,” I lie. My voice is scratchy.
“Okay,” he rasps, getting up.
“Have you been here all night?” I blurt out.
“Yep. How else was I supposed to look after you?”
I choke on my breath.Oh, no. He didn’t just say that, and in that husky, sleepy tone. But hedid. Now on top of everything else, I’m remembering my dream. Heat spreads through me, teasing between my legs. I cross them, and that doesn’t help. It applies pressure to my clit.
A lamp is turned on, washing the room with soft yellow light. Hughes yawns and walks over to me. That’s when I notice he’s in a robe. There are no visible pants. I don’t want to imagine he’s naked underneath, but I have a feeling he’s naked underneath.
Why, though? Who knows. Trying to understand the captain of the Vancouver Wings is a futile exercise. So is cursing the fact that his thighs are thick, tanned, and lightly dusted with hair darker than the blonde on his head. Right now, I can’t avoid how unfairly hot he is.
Hughes’ eyes scan over me. He frowns. “You look a bit flushed.” His features shift, worry creasing his forehead. “Do you have a fever?”
“No, Idon’thave a fever.”
I promise you, I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’ll forget your own name.
“You got hit on the head, Sonya. I’m not taking any risks.”
He steps back and pulls his phone out the pocket of his robe.
“What are you doing?” My tone comes out accusing.
“Calling my doctor.”
I go up on my knees. They sink into the mattress as I reach over and grab his wrist. “I run hot. This…happens all the time, so don’t you dare call your doctor.”
“Sonya,” he states quietly, “It’s my job to look after you.”
“So ask me if I have any other symptoms,” I insist, my voice rushing out.
Hughes shakes his head, but he’s smiling softly to himself now, as if he finds my stubbornness frustrating but also, maybe cute. I must be concussed. That is the only acceptable explanation for why my mind is thinking this way.
“Okay, how’s your head? Any headaches or ringing in the ears?”
“No.”
“Do you have any sensitivity to light?”
“No.”
We run through more symptoms. I don’t have any of them. Becausethat’snot what’s wrong with me.
He tests my forehead again. “Huh. Your temperature’s gone down now. Maybe it’s not a fever.”
“Glad that’s settled,” I retort, using sarcasm to cover how my pulse blips every time he touches me. First the dream, and now this? “I want my own bed, so I’m going home. You can’t stop me.”
Hughes’s stance falters for a moment as if he’s been smacked in the chest. “It’s the middle of the night, Sonya.”
