Page 38 of Face Off
I shuffle into the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and try to steady myself.
It was the right call. I know it. Because once Ollie steps inside this flat, once that door closes behind him, there’ll be no going back. And I’m not ready to risk it — not when the team already hates me, not when Murphy would cut him dead if he knew.
But God, I wanted to. Every fibre of me wanted to tug him inside, lock the door, and climb him like a tree.
I lean against the counter, shutting my eyes. The memory is so vivid it’s almost cruel. His hand at my waist, hot and solid. The way he tasted, a mix of beer from the pub and something sweet I couldn’t place, but now crave like oxygen. The low rumble of his laugh when I whispered it was a bad idea, and he said it was the best bad idea he’d ever had.
I press my thighs together, heat sparking low in my belly.
No. Stop.
I gulp down the water, put the glass in the sink, and march myself to bed like discipline will save me. I change into my softest pyjamas, climb under the duvet, and pull the covers over my head like a shield.
Sleep. That’s what I need. Just sleep.
Except sleep doesn’t come.
My phone buzzes again on the nightstand.
Hannah: You okay?
Me: Yeah. Just trying not to overthink it.
Hannah: Too late, huh?
Me: Way too late.
Hannah: Listen. You like him. He likes you. The rest is noise.
I stare at her words, throat tight.
If only it were that simple.
Because I do like him. God help me, I do. The idiot grin, the puppy-dog eyes, the terrible jokes that shouldn’t make me laugh but always do. And beneath all that, the quiet moments where he’s more than just the clown, where he’s careful and kind in ways I didn’t expect.
But he’s also Murphy’s mate. And a player on a team that already sees me as a liability.
Noise, Hannah says. But noise this loud can drown a person.
I toss my phone aside again and burrow deeper under the duvet, trying to shut my brain off. But it’s no use.
All I can think about is him.
The weight of his hand against mine as we walked. The spark when our fingers threaded together. The press of his lips, gentle at first, then demanding, coaxing, devouring.
My body stirs before I can stop it, heat blooming in places I’ve ignored for too long. I squeeze my thighs together again, restless.
This is stupid. Dangerous. Reckless.
And inevitable.
My hand drifts down, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. But the moment my fingertips brush the waistband of my pyjama shorts, the memory crashes back in vivid colour. Ollie’s grin just before he leaned in, the rasp of his voice saying my name, the raw hunger in the way he kissed me like he’d been starving.
A soft sound escapes me as I slip my hand lower, the duvet muffling everything except the thundering of my heartbeat.
It’s him I’m imagining. His hand instead of mine, rougher, surer. His mouth trailing kisses lower, lower, until I can’t take it.
I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, hips arching into my touch as the heat builds. Every flicker of pleasure is tied to him. The scrape of stubble against my skin, the way he held me like I was something precious, the certainty that if I’d asked him in tonight, he would’ve worshipped me.
