Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks

CHAPTERELEVEN

ELI

We’re standing by the boards on the edge of the rink, but there’s only the two of us here, nobody else. Once we leave I’ll call security and they’ll lock up and patrol the way they do every night.

But for now, we’re alone.

I smell of sweat. I wasn’t wearing padding when I was doing my anger management version of hockey, but I’d still worked up a lot of heat by slamming the puck into the goal.

But all I can think about is this woman in front of me. The one I’ve been fantasizing about since I felt her thighs against my cheeks.

The one who’s telling me she liked it when I did it.

Her cheeks are flaming. I can tell she’s embarrassed at admitting it. And I don’t want her to be embarrassed. I want her to say it again.

“Ignore that,” she says instead. “I’m tired and I’m feeling old and rejected and—”

“You’re not old,” I say, because it’s a scientific fact.

That earns me a smile.

“And he didn’t reject you,” I point out. “He’s an asshole. A predator who thinks the world owes him everything he wants.” I’ve met a few of those myself. My voice softens as I take in her bright red cheeks.

So I put myself out there. “For what it’s worth, I liked it too. You smelled amazing.”

Her voice lifts an octave. “That’s not true. Guys hate the way women smell.”

Where the hell has she been getting this information? “No, they don’t.”

Two adorable lines form between her brows. “Yeah, they do. There’s a reason why guys won’t go down on a woman unless she’s freshly showered.”

My eyes narrow. I’m torn between amusement because she looks so serious about this and annoyance because honestly, she has a terrible guy radar. Why does she find it so hard to believe the lies but not the truth? “You’ve been talking to the wrong guys. A real man wants to smell the real you. Not the sanitized version.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for hygiene. And upkeep. As long as it applies to both sides.

And I’ve been thinking about how good she smelled for weeks. And it has nothing to do with her damn shower gel.

She’s still looking at me like she doesn’t believe me. And I hate being called a liar. An asshole, okay. Moody bastard. Fine.

Liar? No way.

“There’s nothing dirty about smelling like a woman,” I tell her. My voice is lower now. Thicker. “It’s every man’s fucking fantasy.”

You’reevery man’s fantasy. That’s what I want to say. But I don’t. Because this push pull thing is making me be careful. I’m not going to overstep any marks or go where she doesn’t want to lead me.

She opens her lips then closes them again. I get a flashback to how soft they were when we kissed.

Then she shivers. And no wonder. She’s wearing that red dress with nothing on her arms and we’re standing in an ice rink with an ambient temperature of around forty degrees Fahrenheit.

“Come here,” I say, holding out my arms. I expect her to shake her head and remind me that we’re colleagues and that isn’t happening.

Or even better, to remind me that I promised her nothing would happen between us again.

But she doesn’t. She steps forward, her teeth chattering as her face rests against my chest. I wrap my arms around her until the shuddering stops

“I’m kind of sweaty,” I tell her as she relaxes into me.

“Every woman’s fantasy,” she says, her voice muffled by my chest.

I laugh, and she laughs too, tipping her head until her eyes lock with mine. My heart is hammering against my chest. I’m reminded of that familiarity again. Why do I recognize those eyes? It feels like the answer is at the edge of my consciousness.

It’s annoying me.

The atmosphere between us has twisted again. Yes, I’m still sporting a semi-hard-on but this is softer. More like comfort. More like friends.

I like that, too.

“Tech bros are assholes,” she says. I grin because yeah, I’ve met a few who’ve wanted investment or endorsement and that’s the feeling I got, too.

“They are,” I agree. “And when you get home, I want you to let your friend know, so they kick him off the app.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“And then I want you to delete the app.”

Her brows lift. “Why would I do that? I promised my friend I’d beta test it for her.”

“And you have. Job done,” I point out. “Why would you put yourself through that again?”

She stiffens in my arms. “Because maybe I want to make a connection. It’s almost impossible in New York and it’s even more impossible here. Tonight’s the first time I’ve been out to dinner since I got here.”

“You didn’t get to dinner,” I point out, and it doesn’t seem to help.

She huffs and steps back from my hold. Then she huffs again, but this time, I think, because she’s realizing how cold it is.

“No I didn’t,” she says, looking hurt. “And I want to. I really want to. I want somebody to take me to dinner. And not because I might invest in their stupid business idea, or even because they think I might put out on the first date. I want them to do it because they like me. Because they want to spend time with me. Because they know they’ll have a good time doing it.”

There’s something about her voice that makes my chest ache. “I get that.”

“Do you?” She blinks, sounding almost hopeful.

I nod my head. “Yeah, I do. I was the same, when I was playing for the Razors. You have no idea how hard it is to find somebody who’s actually interested in you, the person, not you the hockey player. Somebody who wants to hear what you think, not just take selfies and post them to Instagram because it might boost their profile.”

She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “Did you get that a lot?”

“Yeah. And I guess at first it’s fun. In your twenties when you don’t want to settle down and you think you’re gonna rule the world.”

“And now?”

I give her a half smile. “Now it’s not fun. And it doesn’t happen as much anymore. As much as I love the Mavericks, they don’t have the same effect as an NHL team.”

She gives a little laugh. “You’re losing your touch.”

“So it would seem.”

Her hair shines beneath the bright lights of the stadium. Her eyes are bright, her lips and chin pink from the cold.

The cold. She needs to get out of here.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say, inclining my head at the tunnel. “You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“You have this annoying habit of thinking you know me better than I do,” she complains.

“I don’t know you better,” I tell her, hustling her away from the rink. “I know bodies better. And they don’t react well to hypothermia.”

“I won’t catch hypothermia in here. It’s not even freezing.” She frowns. “Why is that? How does the ice freeze when the air is above freezing?”

I push down a smile. Does she know how fucking adorable she is? “The air is cooler near the surface of the ice,” I tell her, relieved because we’ve made it to the tunnel and the air is much warmer in here. “The ice temperature is below freezing. About twenty-four degrees. Wait here,” I tell her and run into the locker room. The door – as fucking always – almost whips my ass it’s so eager to close.

I walk over to my locker and grab one of the three clean hoodies stashed in there. When I turn to walk back out to the tunnel, I jump like a damn kangaroo because she followed me inside.

I’ve never seen anybody look so out of place in a locker room. She’s put her shoes back on and is standing in the center of the painted M.

“You’ve mastered the door,” I say softly.

Her lips quirk. “I’m a quick learner.” She glances at the hoodie in my hands. “I guess you’re cold too, huh?”

“This is for you.” I hold it out. She looks at it strangely.

“It’s too big for me.”

“I know. But it’s this or you freeze. Lift your arms up.”

By some fucking miracle she does as she’s told and I slide the hoodie over her head, all too aware of the irony that I’m putting more clothes on this woman that I’ve fantasized about nearly every night.

If my brothers were here, they’d laugh their asses off.

“You know you have to undress a woman to have sex, right?”

Yes, dickwads, I know. But right now she doesn’t need me to seduce her. She needs to warm up.

She needs somebody to be kind to her.

I thought I was lonely here, but it’s different. I have family, I have friends. When I’m really bored, I have the team to hang out with.

She has nothing. And I hate that. I hate that she’s alone.

I don’t want her to be.

I realize that’s weird. That maybe I need to stop thinking about this stuff. But then I look at her in my hoodie and blood rushes fast through my veins.

She looks swamped. Her dark hair is fluffed from me pulling the sweater over her head. Her cheeks are still pink, her lips still full.

And for a moment she’s looking up at me like I’m some kind of God.

I want to fuck her. And then I want to talk to her. All night. I’m not sure which I want the most right now.

My cock hardens as if it’s trying to help me decide.

I’m way beyond that high school need to mark a woman with my clothing. And yet I’m imagining scooping her up and taking her home.

Seeing her wearing nothing but that hoodie.

Then I’d lift her onto my kitchen counter and bury my head between her thighs until she’s calling out my name while wearing my hoodie.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” I grunt, putting the dirty thoughts out of my mind.

“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” she promises, as though that’s the problem here.

I shake my head. “Keep it.”

She lifts the hood to her face. “It smells like you,” she says, smiling.

It’s like I’m in the middle of a game. Every synapse in my body fires up. I’m in fight-or-flight mode. I’m in ‘lift this woman up and fuck her against the wall’ mode.

I’m a neanderthal. A fucking geriatric caveman.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me having it?” she asks. I must be grimacing again.

“What age did cavemen die?” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until she replies.

“I’m not sure. Early thirties, maybe?” Her nose scrunches up as she thinks. “Why?”

“That would make a fifteen-year-old middle-aged.”

She looks amused. “Imagine going through puberty and a mid-life crisis all at once.”

I laugh, but I’m still on edge. Mid-life crisis, is that what this is? Just a simple reaction to getting older. My body’s feeling it and it wants to fuck whatever it can.

Nope. Just this woman. All the time.

That voice sounds exactly like my brother, Liam. I hate that.

I blow out a mouthful of air. “I want to take you out for dinner.”

“Now?” She blinks. “Isn’t it a little late?”

She didn’t say no. “Not now. Tomorrow. Next week. You name the day. I want to take you out.”

Her voice is soft. “That isn’t a good idea. We work together.”

“So we won’t do it on work time.”

“You have a game next week.”

“And I’m free every other night.”

It’s her turn to breathe out. “I’m not allowed to fraternize with clients. My company frowns on it.”

“Would you say yes otherwise?” I ask her.

She gives the slightest of nods.

“Then we’ll make it a business meeting. Talk boring work all night. Thread count of towels. Whether Goran’s driving you crazy or making you happy bringing you coffee every day. You choose the topic, I’m good with that.”

There’s that smile again. I want to press my mouth against it. See if it tastes as good as I remember. “And after?” she asks.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll make sure you’ve gotten in safely and I’ll turn my car around and drive myself home.”

Her eyes flicker. She looks almost… disappointed? “It’s still not a good idea.”

“You still didn’t say no.”

“I’ll think about it,” she tells me. I notice her pull the the fabric of the hoodie close to her nose again.

Weird how much I like that.

“You do that.”

She’s still smiling. And so am I. Our eyes are locked like we can’t move them. She takes a step forward and presses her lips against my cheek. “Thank you for cheering me up,” she whispers.

I close my eyes and breathe her in. She’s warm and soft and smells like sheets on a summer day.

“Did you just sniff me?” she asks.

“You keep sniffing my hoodie. It’s only fair.”

“Do I smell good?” Her voice is light.

I inhale her again. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

She kisses me again. This time on the corner of my mouth. It’s like she’s trying to see how far she can push me before I break.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to turn my head, to take control of the kiss. To push her against the wall and let her know how she affects me.

But I don’t want to do this the wrong way. I already regret pushing things too far that first night. Not because I don’t want her but because I do.

So no, I’m not going to kiss her. Even though I’m almost certain that’s what she wants right now. I stroke her hair then step back, and this time when our eyes catch her gaze is hazy. A little dazed. It dips down to my chest and back up again.

“I’m still thinking,” she whispers.

I give her a grin. “Good.”