Page 57

He might still have his giant hand wrapped around my hip, and I might not be facing him, but he’s shutting down.

“Fuck,” he curses, telling me what I already know.

He moves back, pulling his touch away from me, and this time when a shiver rips down my spine, it’s followed by a rush of coldness.

“I’m sorry. I’m…fuck. I’ve gotta take this. If it were anyone else then⁠—”

I flip over in time to watch him tug the rubber from his cock and pull his boxers up.

I swear in that moment, I see every dream I ever had of getting to fuck a hockey player wither and die.

Overdramatic? Yes. But I don’t care.

Tonight meant everything to me.

But I need to remember that it doesn’t mean as much to Nash. He has no idea that he was about to fuck the guy he’s been messaging every day for almost two weeks now.

“It’s okay,” I force out as I swing my legs over the side of his bed, wince at the wetness between my cheeks, as my erection continues to sink in disappointment.

He looks at me, his expression is unreadable, and I fucking hate it. The guy who was just so open with me only moments ago, who was more than willing to take the lead and tell me exactly what he wanted, has gone. This man before me now…he’s the same man the media sees.

“I’ll go,” I say as I push to my feet.

His lips part, and for the briefest moment, I think he’s going to tell me to stay.

But that little kernel of hope is quickly cut down when he closes his mouth and nods in agreement.

Then he swipes the screen of his cell, puts it to his ear, and says, “Hey, I’m here. What’s going on?”

And then he walks out of his bedroom and turns in the opposite direction to the stairs we climbed up.

“Fuck,” I hiss as his deep voice rumbles and then disappears.

I remain on the edge of his bed and drop my head into my hands as I try to take stock of what just happened.

I nearly got railed by a hot-as-hell hockey legend, that’s what happened.

After a few seconds of wallowing in self-pity, I push to my feet and pad across the room, peering behind the first door I find.

Bingo. A bathroom.

I try to clean myself up at the sink, but I quickly discover it’s hopeless, and have no choice but to step into the shower. I don’t know what lube he poured on me, but that shit is good. Too fucking good. I can still feel it a few minutes later when I poke my head out of his bedroom and search the hallway.

I don’t know where he went to, or who is on the phone in the middle of the night.

The thought of it being another guy twists up my insides.

It never occurred to me to ask if he was single. I just kinda assumed he was. The guy is hiding who he really is from the world; surely, he doesn’t have a secret, serious lover hidden away somewhere.

Deciding that that can’t be the case, I retrace my steps from earlier and begin snatching up my discarded clothes.

I find my boxers first and shove my legs into them. Then my pants, which are halfway down the stairs. I snatch them up as images of exactly what was happening when he ripped them from my body fill my head.

It was so perfect. Until it wasn’t.

By the time I find my shirt, I tug it over my head with more force than necessary as anger begins to take over.

My shoes are abandoned haphazardly on the floor in the hallway, and I shove my feet into them as if they personally offended me. As if they’re to blame for Nash wanting to speak to whoever it was on the phone more than finishing what we started.