Page 131 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Shit. Don’t do that, Hunter. Don’t be playful. Don’t be charming. Don’t be nice.

“While this has been amusing—”

“There’s that word again.”

I sigh in exasperation. “I have work to get to.”

I expect Hunter to stop me—he’s a man who typically gets what he wants after all—but he doesn’t, so I walk down the hall toward the visitor’s section in the bowels of the arena.

“One thing, Dekk.”

“Yeah?” I turn to face him. He’s standing in the opening, the rink at his back, his stick in one hand, and the smug expression on his face fitting perfectly. If I could take a picture, the image would be him to a tee.

“Why’d you come this morning? If it wasn’t to steal me or fuck me . . . why waste the trip?”

Shit.

“I told you, I’m traveling with the team for the next stretch.”

“That didn’t answer my question of why you came looking for me.”

Bastard. He wants an answer? All right.

I walk back toward him and stop as he strips his shirt over his head. Where there would normally be an undershirt and pads, there is nothing but skin. Defined, sculpted muscles beneath his olive-toned skin with a tattoo on one shoulder and a war story of scars on the rest.

Scars I’ve traced with my fingers. Tattoos I’ve nipped with my teeth.

When I drag my eyes away from the sight in front of me, I’m met with a raised eyebrow and that damn amusement again painting every single muscle of his face.

Definitely a bastard toying with me.

“I wanted to come here and thank you.”

“We’ve talked all this time and those words haven’t graced your lips so I doubt that’s the reason.”

“No. Maysen was here. I was thrown with the beer bottle,” I fumble.

“Beer bottle is in the trash. Maysen is gone.” He puts one hand on his hip and raises his eyebrows. “What did you want to thank me for?”

I clear my throat. “For reaffirming that Chad wasn’t right for me.”

“How’d I do that?” he asks.

And what I meant as a completely innocent comment on the fly—one I somehow didn’t get out correctly, now just screwed me. How do I answer this? How do I tell him that I felt more alive in the few moments his lips met mine than I did the whole damn time Chad and I dated? Dated? Maybe more like were companions.

Because now I’m stuck staring at his blue eyes that are questioning me and I can’t really give him an answer without showing my cards. Professionally and personally.

“Because . . . I . . . uh missed his call last night when we were in the elevator,” I lie. And internally roll my eyes. I missed a call? Pfft.

“I’m not following you.” His smile widens.

Shit.

“Um, a man who wanted to fight for me would have called back. He would have—”

“Kissed you like I kissed you? Is that what you were going for?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Yes. That’s exactly why.