This is stupid. Of course, it’s stupid. I can’t have hookup sex with a guy I have to see every week for the next few months. It’ll be terribly awkward and weird, and he’s already terribly awkward and weird. And I don’t even know if I like him that much. He doesn’t think before he speaks. He’s judgmental. He’s aloof. He’s infuriating as hell to me, more often than not.
He’s also a gorgeous guy who doesn’t at all act like he even knows it.
Which is a very rare quality for a man who looks like he does. Cal is such a conundrum in so many ways.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“Did you change your mind?” His intense blue eyes swing over to me, holding me in place, keeping me from telling the cabbie to pull over so I can get out and run fast in the opposite direction.
“No, I…” Big breath in, big breath out. “If we do this, can we pretend it didn’t happen afterward? Like, when we work together at the center, can we pretend it didn’t happen so things don’t get weird?”
“Yes, we can pretend it didn’t happen. If that’s what you want, Billie.”
“It is.”
The cab stops at what I assume is his building, and we tumble out, Cal paying the driver before shutting the door. Then he stands on the curb, hands in pockets, chewing on his bottom lip. The look on his face is definitely one I’d describe as pensive, but as usual, he doesn’t give anything away.
Neither of us say a word. We just stare at each other.
I want to give him all the time he needs because I get it—I’m not a hookup person, and maybe he isn’t either. It’s hard to decide if this is a step we should take or a huge, messy misstep that’ll land us both in a big pile of something unpleasant.
This feels crazy and complicated, but also exciting. There’s definitely something drawing me to this man, at least sexually, and I do want to be with him. I tell myself there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow…I can go back to finding Calum Lefleur strange and annoying if this doesn’t work out.
Finally, after what feels like ages, he nods to himself, his decision made apparently. There is a subtle movement of his hand as he starts walking ahead of me. Just a quick reach in my direction—an offering of a sort.
So, I put my hand into his much bigger one. His grip, firm and warm, envelops mine as he leads me inside the building.
My heart is pumping heavily inside my chest, but yet, I know I won’t change my mind.
His sixth-floor apartment is a compact two-bedroom, sparsely decorated. The things that are visible are neatly organized, folded, and put in their places. The colors are beige and gray, navy blue. Everything feels controlled and impermanent. It’s a nice space, but it doesn’t feel like a home. It doesn’t feel like he plans to invest any time in it because he doesn’t plan to stay long at all, but he’s invested enough in his own comfort to ensure that things don’t feel untidy or unmanaged. It’s so contained…much like the man himself. Strangely, I like the quietness of it, which is very unlike me.
“Ah…” he says, putting his keys on the kitchen counter.
I let out a bubble of a laugh that sounds stupid—far girlier than I think I come off on a normal day. It makes my cheeks heat with a blush that I’m hoping he can’t see in this dim space lit only by a standing lamp near the door. I clear my throat nervously. “They say you can tell a lot about a person from the way they arrange their private space.”
“I’m not that complicated. And nothing in here is arranged.”
“We’re all complicated. Humans are complicated beings.”
Cal chews on that for a minute as I take in the look of him. He’s tall, a robust six foot three. I know this because I’ve read his official NHL bio. Yeah, ya got me. I’m guilty of googling Calum Lefleur and searching the Internet for details about how tall, broad-shouldered, and long-legged he is. How he has really good hair the ladies are just dying to drag their fingers through. How he has eyes the color of the deep blue sea they could drown in. Yeah, I might have read some stuff like that about him. And none of it is untrue. Opinions are individual, but I agree with what the writer said about Calum Lefleur. He does have good hair—a sun-streaked brown artfully mussed into place. It suits him. His clothes work similarly in their suitability: a long-sleeved, navy T-shirt, dark jeans, and navy Adidas shoes. Understated and simple on their face, but once attached to his sculpted form become something arresting that catches the eye. I suspect the rest of the clothes in his closet transform in a similar way once he puts them on his body.
He takes the few steps back so that we’re facing each other. “I’m not, ah…”
“You’re not what? Not sure what to do next? Not sure this was a good decision?”
“Maybe both?”
“I’ll take the lead if you can relinquish control?”
He nods, just once. He still looks like he’s thinking on something.
“Don’t overthink this,” I tell him. “We’ll get this…whatever this is…out of our systems. We’ll move on from it after. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says softly.
I put my hands on his biceps. God, they are muscular. Exploring with clothes still on, I feel the corded muscle of his forearms, the bulge of pectorals, the ripple of abdominals. Yep. All the right things are there. An ache blooms in my lower belly, an ache I haven’t felt since the night I met him, the night I kissed him so carelessly.
“You are…very fit.” The words come out of my mouth breathlessly, making me flush hotter.
“Athlete,” he says, his eyes closing as I cup his cock through his jeans. He’s semi-hard, for sure, like he was when I straddled him in the cab. He wants me—that much is totally clear.
I help divest him of his shirt and am rewarded with maybe the most perfect upper body I have ever seen in person. I actually sigh, much to my chagrin. It makes him smirk. Not a smile. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him truly smile. He always looks slightly uncomfortable, even when I know he’s having a decent time. It’s good to see him make a face resembling happiness or enjoyment or amusement.
Taking my time, I repeat the exploration, hand on skin, gooseflesh erupting all over his arms as I run my fingertips and palms over every muscle, savoring the feel of his warm skin.
Calum Lefleur is a work of art with his slightly golden skin. He looks like he belongs on the pages of a California surf magazine more than a far-northern Montreal ice hockey rink. He is, quite simply, delicious from head to toe.
He does not stop me as I reach for his belt. So, I move on to unbuckling him, then working the button free, and then unzipping, the sound of the zipper practically screaming into the silence.
The sound triggers something in Cal, and he starts helping to free himself from the jeans and the socks until he’s standing before me in nothing but thin gray boxers.
“I want to see you.” Oh, how I want to see him. I’ve never been this bold with a partner before, and it shocks me to hear myself saying the words at this moment. But I don’t have time to ponder my boldness for long.
Because he ditches the boxers and tosses them away before straightening again to his full height—every naked inch of him on display for my eyes to devour.