Page 66 of The Last Guy On Earth
I think that over. “If you walked into this room ready to quit, then the stakes just got a whole lot lower. If you’ve accepted the idea that you’ll be leaving the game when it’s time, then what’s one more try? Got nothing to lose.”
He stares up at the ceiling a moment. “Yeah, I guess,” he whispers. “That’s not a bad way to look at it. I’m sorry to dump out my bag of crazy at your door. But you did trade for me.”
I snort. “And I’ve got the king-size bottle of Advil to prove it.”
He smiles, and then we sit quietly together for a thoughtful moment. Eventually, he turns to look at me again, and we’re so close together—and on abed, for crying out loud—that my pulse kicks up. I’m not proud of it. But it’s late, and he’s all rugged muscle and stormy eyes.
I sense the exact moment when he feels it, too. Although it’s subtle. A widening of his eyes. His pulse visible at his throat.
And I need to shut it down. “Jetty…”
“What?” He sounds defiant. “I can practically hear your gears grinding over there. And then there’s this.” He sits up and squeezes the muscle between my shoulder and my neck. “I’m over here beating myself up over my failure to evolve. Meanwhile, you still have the same neck ache you’ve had since George W. was president.”
I close my eyes, because he’s right, and also it feels good. I’m so tense my shoulders are like bricks.
“Look,” he whispers. “Getting shipped to Colorado is the most humbling thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You said,” I murmur as his fingers get a better grasp and squeeze.
“It’s not just the hockey,” he says. “You’re the best person who ever walked into my life, and I can’t believe it ever made sense to let you walk out of it. I just wanted you to know that I finally realize that. And I’m sorry.”
It’s the apology I never thought I’d hear. For a long beat, I forget to breathe. Meanwhile, Jethro kneels behind me on the bed. Nowbothhis hands find their way onto my aching shoulders.
I take a gulp of air and roll my neck to release the tension. I don’t speak, because I’m afraid what will come out of my mouth. But I can’t hold back my groan.
“There you go,” he whispers, his strong hands starting a slow massage. “I was always happy to do this. Made me feel useful, but never used. I liked how competent you were. Always knew what to do—except for this one thing. Youneededme.”
I close my eyes, because it’s true. I needed him. But then he decided he didn’t need me.
“And then later on,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper as he works me over with a firm grip. “…I was just looking for a good reason to touch you. I’d rub your neck. Get you nice andloose. Your shoulders would drop. And when you were ready, you’d tilt your head to the side. You’d make room for me. And that’s where I’d put my mouth.”
He’s right. It went exactly like that. He’d lower his head and suck…
Just thinking about it makes my nipples tighten.
His hands continue to work their magic, and I’m trapped in a time warp. I’m twenty-four and desperately in love with the grumpy goalie from Detroit. And, fuck me, but the thirty-nine-year-old me can’t seem to move on.
I tilt my head to the left and hold my breath.
He doesn’t make me wait. Jethro leans down and slowly traces the sensitive skin of my neck with soft lips. His tongue finds a sweet spot at the back of my jaw, and the gentle scrape of his stubble lights me up like a flare.
He seizes the moment, his tongue in my ear. His hand sliding around to my chest. He’s several kisses in before I can gulp in a breath. “Jethro, wait.”
He stops. Immediately.
As soon my brain absorbs a little more oxygen, I feel a flare of irritation. “Why did you really come in here tonight? Was it for this?”
“No,” he says immediately. “But I wanted to see your face. I wanted you to tell me it would be all right.”
My heart gives a squeeze that’s half love, half anger. “God, we’re complicated. This is already a terrible idea, and you’re kind of a mess tonight.”
“True. But you really think I’ll be more of a mess if you let me suck you off?”
The question goes straight to my groin.
Sometimes I hate Jethro Hale. I really do.
THIRTY-ONE
