Page 110 of Playing With Fire

“I am.”

“You keep moving.”

“Because that shit’s cold.”

She cocks her head and pauses. “You’re a professional hockey player.”

“Observant.”

“You get slammed into walls for a living.”

“Boards.”

“What?”

“They’re called boards.”

“I know what they are called.” Her eyes narrow. “Same difference.”

I grin—bad decision. My lip pulls.

“Fuck.”

“See?” She points at me with the gauze. “Stop being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby.”

“You just whined because the antiseptic was cold.”

“I did not whine.”

“You absolutely whined.”

“Careful. I’m injured.”

“You have a tiny cut on your lip.”

“Could end my career.”

That gets me the laugh I was looking for. She shakes her head and goes back to work.

The room settles around us—TV murmuring. The cat purring from the other end of the couch. The faint medicinal smell of whatever she’s putting on my lip mixed with the warm, sweet scent of her still hangs in the air.

Every time her fingers touch my face, I have to remind myself to keep my hands exactly where they are on my thighs and off her.

Especially when she leans closer, her chest barely brushing my arm.

“Almost done.”

“Take your time.” My hands clench into fists, knuckles turning white.

Her eyes flick to mine.

Shit.

“Don’t want you fucking up my face,” I add.

“Your ego survived the flight. That’s impressive.”