Page 30 of Lovefool

Fuck, she looks so beautiful. I mean, she always looks beautiful. And it’s not even the dress—although it’s doing irreparable damage to my tumescent cock. It’s the way she clings to me; it’s the way her baked strawberry aroma makes my mouth water.

I don’t want her to stop touching me. I don’t want to end this night without giving her the kiss she deserves, but she has to sober up for that to happen.

“We need to get some water in you.” I try to shake off the tightness in my groin without her noticing. My muscles are girding for a reckoning that’s never going to come, and the surfeit of lust that weighs down my chest is responsible for flatlining all brain activity. My mind is the equivalent of a shredded VHS tape.

Lake ascends to her tiptoes so she can assess my terrible poker face, her gaze drifting from one of my eyes, to my mouth, then to my other eye.

Great. She’s perfected the triangle method. Of course she has.

“I don’t want water,” she purrs, capitalizing on my weakness and deliberately running her tongue over her bottom lip, knowing that I’d have no choice but to chase the insinuation.

Fucking hell. I have to resist her. I can’t resist her. I can’t…I can’t walk away from her. Nothing in this godforsaken world could keep me from her.

I change the subject quickly, knowing that I’m about to cream my pants in the middle of this party if I don’t. “You’re thirsty. Water is good. I need to get some food in you too,” I decide, brooking no room for argument.

She blows a raspberry. “We’re supposed to have fun tonight. Don’t you want to have fun with me?”

YES. OH GOD, YES. I WANT IT MORE THAN ANYTHING I’VE EVER WANTED BEFORE. USE ME, STEP ON ME, MAKE ME BARK FOR YOU.

“Of course I do, Trouble, but you’re under the influence, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing anything you can’t consent to a hundred percent.”

I have no idea where that nickname came from—it kind of just slipped out. Nevertheless, it was second nature. Everything I do with Lake is an involuntary response, as systematic as breathing. I don’t have to put up a front when I’m around her. I don’t have to be this grander person in order to impress her. She sees my flaws and still chooses to embrace them.

Lake pouts and kicks the toe of her boots against the grimy floor, but her disappointment vanishes like a cover of mist receding from the height of a bedewed morning. “So if I sober up, you’ll kiss me?”

Shit. She’s making sense. This is bad. I’m a mess. I’m concealing a DSCA-approved weapon in my jeans that’s about to become incredibly too noticeable.

It perplexes me that she even has to ask. My body and mind are two separate entities right now, and the latter has no control over the pathetic display of arousal attempting to poke apertures into my unconvincing stonewall. The stuffy atmosphere rivals the heat tunneling through my jellified limbs as acid sloshes violently against the inner walls of my belly.

“I’d kiss the hell out of you, baby, but not tonight. Not like this.” I pull her toward the kitchen in search of one hydrating fallback.

Either her disappointment has egressed or she’s giddy that we’re finally moving, because soft giggles trail after me, and the hand that’s currently intertwined with mine gives my palm a reflexive squeeze.

Pushing past the buildup of drunkards isn’t dissimilar to the obstacles I outskate on the ice, so my quick legs make it to the sink just in time to grab the cleanest-looking glass from the cabinet and fill it to the brim with tap water.

I thrust it in Lake’s direction, and she thanks me silently by gulping two thirds of it down, then going “ahhh” to show me how good of a job she’s done. “Now will you stop being a party pooper and come dance with me? Pleeeaaaseee?”

Dancing. Dancing requires rhythm. And coordination. Despite my profession, I have sea legs off the ice. I’m bound to step on all her toes or elbow her or completely embarrass myself because some selfless bystander will think I’m having a stroke.

My ironically dry throat clicks with a swallow. “Don’t you want to do something less strenuous? Sitting down seems like a safe bet.”

A frown slashes over those plump, perfectly pink lips, which are lathered in a thin glaze of gloss that sparkles when the light hits them just right. “This is a party, Sutton. Live a little. Get out of your comfort zone. You don’t need to protect me from the dance floor.”

She’s the only person I’ve ever met who can see right through me. Who cares enough to see right through me.

“Parties, uh, aren’t really my thing,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck, anxiety crash-landing into the brunt of my chest.

“They’re usually my thing, but I came here”—she turns her head to the side, whispering—“on a secret mission.”

I humor her. “A secret mission, huh?”

“Yuh-huh. I’m undercover.” She opens the pocket of her dress so she can lift up the corner of a small notepad. “For my first article.”

She’s here for an article. Her job. It was stupid to think she was here solely for me, right?

“And what have you concluded from your findings?”

She chews on her next set of unspoken words, as if she can’t decide between compromising the integrity of her work or answering my question. She scrunches her nose up in contemplation. “Well, I went into the night believing that all hockey players are liars, cheats, and the scum of the earth, but my findings weren’t…conclusive.”