Page 51 of Playing Her Game

“Then you'll have to make it again under normal conditions. Scientific method.”

“And you'll volunteer as the test subject?”

“Any time, any place.”

I shake my head and smile as I take another bite. The food really is that good, but I can't separate the meal from everything around it. The warmth of the house, the easy conversation, the fact that I'm sitting across from a man I want without feeling the need to apologize for it.

We clear the island together when we're finished. He loads the dishwasher while I put away the leftovers, and soon enough we're carrying our wine and the ice cream to the couch.

Outside, snow blurs the lake until the water and sky seem to disappear into each other. Inside, the house is warm and quiet, the hockey game carrying on in the background.

I nod back toward the island. “Did you buy out the entire store?”

“Emergency provisions.”

“Who’s bleeding?”

“Emotional support.” He shrugs.

I look from the snacks to the salted caramel ice cream, then back at him. He bought me enough comfort food to last through the storm.

“Your emergency planning is excessive for someone whose vibe is detached and unemotional.”

“You’re welcome.” His mouth curves at one corner, not quite a smile but an admission of intent.

He peels back the lid, then passes me a spoon. I try to dig in, but it’s too cold, too solid. He chuckles, and I dig in harder for the first bite, knowing I had to succeed, then hand the spoon back to him.

He digs in with little effort compared to mine. He takes the next bite without hesitation.

We trade the carton back and forth, passing the spoon, then refusing to acknowledge the intimacy of sharing more than orgasms.

“I knew it, you’re competitive on the ice but a big old Teddy Bear about everything else,” I say, take an oversized scoop, balance it on the edge of the spoon, and hold it out to him, forcing him to make a mess catching it.

He narrows his eyes at the challenge, then wraps his lips around the spoon, not breaking eye contact. “You know what this is called?” He licks caramel from the corner of his mouth, deliberately. “It’s escalation.”

“Is that a technical term?”

“It’s what happens when you start something you can’t finish.” He snags the carton and goes for an even bigger helping than mine, but the ice cream bends the spoon and he has to use his thumb to scrape at the edge. I laugh, not just because it’s funny, but because I want to, that’s how easy it is with him.

“Come on, fancy, open up.”

“I can’t possibly.” I shake my head.

“I’ve seen you open wider than that with my own eyes.”

Heat blooms inside me, even though we had sex less than an hour ago, and I do not want to seem too greedy, so I take the bite, hoping it cools me down.

“Good girl.”

He sets the carton down on the table beside him, stretches his legs out on the ottoman before him, and pats his chest.

A game begins.

“I won’t make you watch this; we can watch⁠—”

“I grew up watching hockey, even playing it from time to time.”

“You played ice hockey?” he asks, shocked.