Page 69 of Match Me if You Can

“You’re cute when you’re pretending to be pissed,” he explains, rolling to his side and smirking at me.

God, this view is somehow better.

And likely due to the fact that his sleep shorts have slid down a few inches, making my fingertips itch to slip beneath the material and⁠—

“Go ahead,” he murmurs.

I blink, tear my gaze from those little Vs near his hip bones, from the happy trail leading south, disappearing from sight. “What?”

“You can touch me.”

Pleasure rushes through me so intensely that I actually get dizzy.

What would it be like to touch him?

To feel those hard muscles, that hot skin. To⁠—

He snags my hand, draws it over to his chest, presses it flat so my palm and fingers are flush against him. “You can touch me,” he says again, his voice a little raspy at the edges.

I inhale sharply, and even though I know I should pull back, know that this is beyond stupid—I don’t even like hockey players—when he releases me, I don’t draw away.

I touch him.

He has an incredible body, built and defined without getting too big. In my opinion, it’s the perfect mix of strength and function and beauty—the right size and shape to kill it on the ice, but clearly with a focus on making sure that strength and function and beauty carries over to every part of him.

Even the parts—like those yummy Vs—that aren’t strictly necessary for hockey.

I slowly drag my fingers over his chest, along the ridges of his abs⁠—

“Why’d the call upset you?”

Sneak attack.

Freezing, I flick my gaze up to his, telling him silently, I know exactly what game he’s playing.

He shrugs the shoulder that’s not pressed into the bed and gives me a smile that steals my breath. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

I know people.

At first being hyperaware, trying to anticipate what the people in my life might say or do or think was a survival mechanism. Tread carefully, don’t garner the wrong type of attention.

Then the ability to read people became a skill I was able to hone so I could make a living.

But Ace Ambrose…is perplexing.

I know I’ve misjudged him, know that he has a heart in there somewhere because he’s shown me a glimpse of it.

And he’s smart.

He’s intuitive.

He’s somehow seen through parts of my armor.

And that means he’s dangerous.

I pull back even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

He doesn’t comment, just rolls to his back while I pick up my computer and go back to the emails. Why I say what I say next is anyone’s guess.