Page 118 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Who knows.

I’m done.

We’re done.

Life moves on.

The doorman to the Thompson Chicago greets me as I step into the lobby of the luxury hotel. The dark brown décor is the perfect mixture of modern and old-world with its reception desk on one side and its elegant bar on the opposite end of the massive space. Classical music plays softly in the background, accompanying the soft hum of chatter from the bar’s occupants.

Glancing that way, I recognize a few players relaxing at the tables off to the right, and wave in greeting when one of them recognizes me.

“You good?” Heffner calls out.

“Yeah, thanks. Just tired. Good night, guys.”

With my coat wrapped tightly around me, I head toward the bank of elevators and push the up button. It dings within seconds and after I enter the car and push my floor, a hand stops the door from closing.

“Hold up.”

When I look up, I’m stayed by the intense eyes the color of the sky. I despise the thrill that shoots through me at the sight of him—at the complication of him—but it doesn’t make the ache it leaves me with any less potent.

Crap.

He doesn’t say anything as he steps beside me, but rather holds my eyes and leans a shoulder against the wall. I refuse to retreat.

The doors finally slide closed.

“You don’t date hockey players?” he asks, repeating my words back to me, as he cocks his head to the side.

“Nope.”

His chuckle is a low rumble that’s equal parts smooth and rough and reminds me of what his hands on my body used to feel like.

“Nope?” He reaches out and tucks an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “I seem to remember you dating a hockey player before.” He lowers his voice so it’s a seductive whisper and takes a step closer to me. “The one whose memory and stick skills keep you satisfied on lonely nights.”

I open my mouth and then close it, knowing there’s absolutely nothing I can say to take back those comments. Even worse, I can’t pretend those words were a lie . . . because they’re not.

“Stick. Skill. Finesse.” His eyes light up with so much more than humor when he stares at me. Desire swims with lust, and the sight of it shouldn’t surprise me, but it unnerves me.

“I was just . . . I was putting Katz in his place.”

“Was it true though? How exactly did my memory keep you satisfied on those lonely nights?” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips with an intensity in his eyes that demands an answer.

Sexual tension thickens in the elevator as a floor dings, the door opens, but no one gets on.

It doesn’t matter if someone did though because nothing would break his focus on me.

And I feel it all the way to the apex of my thighs.

Memories of him—his skill, his prowess, his finesse—own my mind, and I can’t divorce myself from them and the man standing before me.

No matter how much I tell myself I need to.

The urge to reach out and touch him is real, which I hate.

The door shuts.

“Not true,” I murmur.