Page 65 of Top Shelf

“Like what?”

“Like you know I’m lying.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Are you?”

I should get out of the car, but I sit there with the lease folder on my lap and my shoes at my feet, looking at this man who is leaving tomorrow and trying not to care that the apartment will feel lonely without him in it.

“I told them I was horny,” I blurt.

Viktor goes still, his eyes moving over my face. “Heidi.”

“I’m serious.” I huff a laugh.

For a second, he says nothing, and then he opens his door, gets out, and comes around to mine. Cold air slides in when he opens it, and I fumble with the seat belt, muttering curses under my breath. He gestures to the buckle.

“May I?”

I nod, and he leans in to release the seat belt with a soft click. I can smell soap on his skin, and my fingers find the front of his jacket before I’ve even processed I’m reaching for him.

“I’m not drunk.”

His hand covers mine where it holds his jacket, and I can feel his heart beating faster than I expect beneath my knuckles.

“I know.” His thumb moves once over my knuckles. “But tomorrow you could decide it was because of the champagne.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe not.” Blue eyes search mine. “But I do not want maybe.”

I hate him for being right. I hate the unsteady beat of his heart under my palm, because it proves he is not as unaffected as he looks. I hate that he is giving me a way out I don’t want to take.

“Fine. I mean, you leave tomorrow anyway,” I say with a sigh. “That’s convenient.”

“No, min fru.” He releases my hand and the cold air moves between us when he steps back. “It is not.”

Chapter ten

Viktor

Ihear the shower before I see my wife.

Water hits tile on the other side of the ensuite wall, hot enough to steam beneath the door. Heidi hums under her breath, tuneless and distracted, and I stop with my hand still wrapped around the handle of my suitcase.

The flight was early in. I should’ve probably texted from the car. Instead, I’ve quietly let myself into the apartment after four nights away in hotels, and now I’m standing in our bedroom with the sounds of Heidi Grant in the shower.

Her humming cuts off and is replaced with a long, broken moan that tightens like a hand around my throat. The water rushes harder, and my grip tightens on the suitcase.

The away games were supposed to help. Three games, four nights, a bed to myself and no pillow border failing under the determination of Heidi’s sleeping body. No waking with her hand on my stomach, or a bare thigh hooked over mine, no scent of her shampoo on my chest. Distance should’ve given me sense, especially after what happened in the parking lot before I left.

But that all went to shit when I discovered she watched the games.

After the first one, she texted: Good game, Karlsson.

And the second: That was an amazing assist!

Then the third, when I blocked two shots and took a penalty I do not regret: You were very, very good tonight.

I stared at those words in a hotel room in St. Louis until the screen went dark in my hand, then replaced it with the hard length of my cock.