Page 67 of The Risk Taker

His lips part. His pupils blow wide. His hand tightens where it’s still wrapped around my wrist, just enough to make my blood rush south.

I’m fully aware we’re standing in the hallway right outside Coach’s office. A place where literally anyone could walk in and see Nathan and me standing way too close, practically breathing each other’s air. But I don’t give a shit.

“They don’t get hard from a single picture,” I murmur, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

His lips are parted. Pink. A little bitten. So fucking pretty. I want so badly to kiss him, just to see if he tastes as wrecked as he looks.

“Logan…” he says, his head jerking slightly like he’s just remembered where we are. His gaze darts around at the office door, at the sound of laughter echoing faintly from the locker room.

I take a step back before I do something we’ll both regret. “Relax. My word still stands. I won’t touch you.” I cock my head. “Not until you ask me to.”

He doesn’t respond. Not out loud, anyway. But his chest rises and falls too fast, his fingers are still locked tight around my wrist and his eyes flick down to my mouth like he’s thinking about kissing me.

My gaze drops before I can stop it and grin when I see the hockey pants aren’t hiding a damn thing.

A slow smile creeps across my face and he glances down, noticing how hard he is.

His jaw flexes and he squeezes his eyes shut, muttering a low, “Fuck,” under his breath.

I shift my duffel on my shoulder, forcing myself to back off before I push him too far, too fast.

“Enjoy your little coffee,” I say casually, turning toward the exit like I’m not grinning ear to fucking ear.

Behind me, I hear him let out a shaky breath and chuckle slightly as I push open the door, the cold air hitting me square in the face, which I desperately need because my body is hot as fuck after that.

Nathan Hayes wants me.

He just has no idea what the hell to do about it.

And I can’t wait until he finally figures it out.

18

NATHAN

People call me a clean freak, but try living with three guys who think “cleaning” means shoving crap under the couch cushions.

There are pizza boxes stacked on the table, empty bottles rolling around like they’re drunk too, and a crumpled napkin with what Ihopeis ranch.

I nudge a bottle aside to make space for my phone, then immediately wipe my hand on my sweats. Table’s sticky. Obviously.

I love the guys as if they were my brothers, but my God, their messiness astounds me sometimes.

I rest my elbow on the edge of the sectional couch, trying hard not to gag at the sight of Ryan’s hand on my sister’s thigh. She’s tucked under his arm, her legs crossed over his, his hand tracing lazy circles on her leg while they watch the screen. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

I said I was cool with it, and I am. In theory. They’re good together. She’s happy, he’s less of a jackass than usual, whatever. Doesn’t mean I like to see him groping my little sister.

I glance over at Logan. He’s leaning back in the corner, scrolling through his phone, one knee bouncing as he keeps his eyes on the screen.

I wonder who he’s texting.

Stupid thought, but it comes anyway.

A guy? A girl?

He said he was fine with waiting. Said I didn’t need to rush. But that doesn’t meanhe’swaiting. He’s probably hooking up with people who aren’t this complicated, who don’t flinch every time things get too real.

I take another sip to cover the churning in my stomach at the thought even though I know damn well I have no right to feel that way. We’re just… fuck, we’re nothing. Not really.