Page 129 of Off Limits: The Firsts

The mental whiplash lasts only seconds as I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he threw me. “Why am I staying in the same hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Convenience.”

That cocky grin spreads wider as he just shakes his head ever so slightly and takes a step closer so his skates hit the barrier between us.

“What?” I ask, relieved by the sudden levity. This verbal sparring is exhausting.

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“Didn’t you know? I’m an open book,” I tease.

“An open book inside a block of ice.”

“Amusing,” I mutter, unnerved by his intense scrutiny and hurt by his dig, even though it’s more accurate than not. Those eyes of his hard to look away from.

“I’d say it’s amusing too, but I’m the one who’s always on the other end of whatever game you’re playing.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shift on my feet. This is the last place I need to address why I’m here in Chicago. The mood has changed, the moment lost to speak to him. “You know what? I’m not going to be your verbal punching bag. By the way Maysen stalked out of here, you’re pissed at him. Fine. Be pissed at him, but not me. I know that look in your eyes, and I’m not going to be the one you toy with so you feel like a man in control again.”

I stalk toward the players’ opening, the click of my heels only rivaled by the slice of his skates on the ice. And just as I reach the entrance to the tunnel, Hunter is there, his hand on my bicep pulling me back toward him.

“A man in control again?” he asks, his fingers adjusting his grip as his chest brushes over mine. “I’m always in control.”

“That one seemed to touch a nerve, did it?”

“Maybe you should ask yourself how in control you are, huh?” His eyes flit down to my lips and back up to mine, the warmth of his breath hitting my lips. I can all but taste his kiss again but know that mistake will not be repeated.

No way.

No how.

Not after last night.

“Let’s move on to adjectives that start with I. Irritable, much?”

His chuckle is that low rumble that tells me he’s ready to play. That’s the last thing I want right now. “Irritable? How about indecisive?”

“Who, you?”

“No, you,” he sneers and takes a step closer.

“Not in the least.”

“No?” His eyes flicker from my eyes to my lips again. “This was a huge mistake,” he says, pretending to sound like me last night before clearing his throat. “Right back to that phrase, huh?”

“What do you mean?” I tug on my arm to no avail.

“I mean, it’s amazing how convenient it is for you to fall back on that line. You said it the last time I saw you and you said it last night.”

I did? I try to relive the moments, knowing I said it in the elevator but not remembering the time before. All I remember is trying to keep my emotions under check so Hunter Maddox had no clue I’d failed at the casual dating—er, sex situation—we’d found ourselves in. Sure, we fell into bed that first time, then verbally fought our way out of it, only to fall back into it more often than not over the course of six months.

But we weren’t dating.

You could have asked either of us and we would have confirmed that. We were benefits buddies. The call we’d make when we were in the same city, at the same time—hell, even when we weren’t we’d arrange to be. That’s how great our sexual chemistry was.

The problem? Even though we couldn’t be in the same room longer than thirty minutes without fighting—unless we were having sex—I became addicted to him. His gruff way, his cutting sense of humor, and his . . . well, his cock and fingers and oh-so-gloriously skilled tongue. But I can’t see that in him now.