Page 163 of Offside Angle

“I know.” I give his hip a careful push toward the tub. “Now get in before I decide you’re too much of a menace to deserve a bath.”

He looks toward the water, then back at me.

“You’d still give me one.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

I narrow my eyes.

Matteo grins and starts climbing into the tub, then apparently changes his mind about the order of operations.

Before I can ask what he’s doing, he catches me by the hips and turns me around, fingers already working their way down the buttons of my shirt with the same stubborn concentration he brings to everything else. I could stop him, but I don’t see much reason to.

“I’m serious about the beach,” he says as he pushes the shirt off my shoulders. “Somewhere quiet. No media. No early mornings. Just you looking unfairly good in the sun while I pretend I’m not staring.”

His hands move to my belt, and I glance down at him. “You’re already staring.”

“I’m multitasking.”

“That explains your incredible efficiency.”

“Exactly.”

By the time he gets my jeans open, he looks far too pleased with himself for someone who could barely bend over to take off his own skates half an hour ago.

Once we’re both undressed, I step into the tub first and hold out my hand. Matteo takes it without making a joke for once, using me for balance as he lowers himself carefully into the hot water. The breath that leaves him is long and shaky, his whole body seeming to give up a little of its fight as the heat reaches every place that has been aching since the game.

I settle behind him and let him lean back against my chest before reaching for the washcloth. There’s dried blood near his mouth and more along his jaw where the cut smeared during the game, so I start there, careful around the split skin before moving down over his neck and shoulders. The water is already beginning to cloud with sweat and whatever else three periods of hockey leaves behind, and I keep the pressure light wherever the bruises have started darkening.

Matteo lasts maybe thirty seconds before he starts talking again.

“We should get one of those ridiculous private villas,” he says, one hand finding my thigh beneath the water. “With a pool. And a big bed. And doors that lock. I’m going to need a lot of recovery time after this series.”

“Recovery,” I repeat, rinsing the cloth before drawing it carefully over his shoulder. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

He turns his head enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. “Among other things.”

His fingers slide higher along my thigh, warm and increasingly ambitious beneath the water, so I catch his wrist before he gets too distracted and press a kiss to the damp skin of his shoulder.

“Let me finish cleaning you up first,” I murmur. “Then you can be as handsy as you want.”

Matteo sighs like I’ve personally wronged him, but he settles back against me anyway. His free hand keeps tracing lazy circles over my leg while I work my way down one arm, and I let him have that. The touch seems to ground him, and little by little some of the tension starts easing out of his shoulders.

I drag the washcloth gently down his forearm, watching the water bead against his skin, and finally decide to stop letting him dodge quite so effectively.

“You know you’re allowed to be sad before you start seducing me into summer plans, right?”

His fingers pause against my thigh.

Only for a moment, but I feel it.

Then he huffs. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

His grip loosens, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I don’t want to be sad yet.”

I set the washcloth aside for a moment and press my mouth to his shoulder, leaving my lips there against the damp skin.