“I wasn’t sure when you’d be leaving. I wanted to try—”
The elevator dings. Alex laces my fingers with his and we walk down the hall to his room. The space is laid out almost the same as my parents suite aside from the single door leading to what is most likely the bedroom.
“We usually share rooms, but I won a bet last week, so my buddy Darren had to put me up in this.”
“Darren?”
“Yeah. Westinghouse. Number twenty-six. He plays right wing.”
It’s at this moment I remember I was supposed to snap a picture of him. I was too busy sticking my tongue in Alex’s mouth to follow through. I hope Charlene forgives my distraction.
“You share rooms?”
“Most of the time.”
Bringing girls up to the room would be a challenge. Unless they’re all into watching or sharing. I suppress a shudder. I wonder what kind of bet he won.
I trail Alex to the bar, where he makes me an alcohol-free drink. He cracks a bottle of Perrier for himself.
We stand there, staring at each other, not saying anything until the awkwardness becomes unbearable and I crack.
“I’m nervous.” I follow up with, “I don’t usually do this.” Cue internal eye roll. What a clichéd line.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, his eyes alight with amusement. “You don’t usually hang out with people?”
“No. I don’t usually follow famous hockey players to their private suites when they come knocking on my door at two in the morning after having made out publicly in a bar.”
“Do hockey players usually come knocking on your door in the middle of the night?”
“No. This would be a first for me.” I shed his jacket and pass it to him, already too warm, thanks to the banter.
“Those pajamas are really something.”
“I think you like my nipple visibility.”
I turn away, wishing I could stop my mouth. Leaning across the bar, I drop a few more ice cubes into my drink. A throat clears behind me, and I remember how low these pants sit. There’s a solid chance half my ass is hanging out the back. I straighten quickly and hike the pants up, nearly giving myself a camel toe. No matter how I turn, Alex is going to get an eyeful of something.
There’s a plush couch on the other side of the room. I cross to it and sit in the corner, tucking my legs under me to prevent further wardrobe malfunctions. Alex hasn’t said anything to confirm or deny my Spidey jammies observation. In fact, he hasn’t said anything at all.
He sits beside me, leaning back, looking all relaxed and hot. Then he fucks me. Not in the literal sense; he doesn’t bend me over the arm of the couch, drop my pants, and fill me from behind. But he might as well.
What does he do to crumble my already weak resolve, other than be his absurdly gorgeous self? Alex does exactly what he said he wanted to do—hang out and talk.
“So you run a book club? What’s that like?” He stretches his arm out, grazing his fingertips along my shoulder.
I’m not sure how to answer this question without sounding too losery. “I don’t run it, I just participate. Mostly it’s an excuse to drink wine and eat junk food while discussing smutty books. We don’t typically read sixteenth century literature, but we had a real smut run for the last few months. This chick Lydia was getting tired of reading the word moist, so she picked Fielding. It’s a little extreme.”
Alex shudders. “Understandable, really. Moist is a terrible word.”
“So true. It should only be used to describe the consistency of cake.”
“Agreed.” Alex laughs, his pretty smile lingering. He twirls my hair between his fingers. “So did you study English in college?”
“Not as a major. I took a few courses for fun. What about you?” My mouth is dry and every part of me is hot. I take a sip of my grapefruit drink.
“I double majored in English Lit and Kinesiology during my first year. I had to drop the kin after I was drafted. I was a little late getting picked up.”
He double majored. My Spidey jammies are at risk of peeling themselves off my body. “When were you drafted?”
“The middle of my first year.”
“And you still finished your degree?”
“It took a little longer than usual, but yeah. I’d still like to finish the kin degree at some point, but that’ll have to wait. So you’re not into lit fic, eh?”
He’s using cute Canadianisms. I’m getting all flushed below the waist and above the neck. “I’m good with literary. I’ve read Tolstoy and Austen and liked them, but Fielding’s a pretty vast change from straight up word porn.”
I get another laugh, and his fingers drift down the side of my neck. “He saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”
Oh God. He’s quoting Tolstoy and touching me. I’m done for.