Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1) (12 page)

LILLY

The lights are dimmed. That’s a mistake. I’m in the near dark alone with a man so sexual he could make a straight guy curious and I turned down the lights, turned up the music, and tempted fate. I’m playing with fire and it’s everywhere. Next to me, in front of me, behind me. I can’t get away from him and I can’t stop gravitating toward him. My palms are flat on his back as I scoot behind him. My hand is on his arm when I dart around him. His eyes are on my body wherever I go, and he’s hungry all right, but it’s not for donuts.

And if I stop moving long enough to ask myself, I’ll find that I’m starving. Ravenous. 

“The Panthers,” Colt says briskly, answering a question I barely remember asking. “And we’re gonna murder ‘em.”

He’s leaning on his arms on the surface of the stainless steel island, his eyes watching me intently as I move around the kitchen. He’s caught a second wind from somewhere. He’s more alert than anyone has a right to be going on this little sleep at this time in the morning. Personally, I’m ready to curl up next to the oven and sleep the day away like a cat on Ambien.

“Are you going to them or are they coming here?” I ask.

“They’re coming here.”

“Well, good luck. Or, oh crap,” I stutter, pulling a long tray of donuts from the proofing drawer. “Is that not something you say to athletes? Are you superstitious?”

He grins, shaking his head. “You can say it. We’re superstitious but not that kind.”

“What kind then?”

“Do you want me to get that for you?”

I glare at him as I heave the heavy tray onto the gleaming surface in front of him. “You’re not the only one with muscles.”

“I can see that.” He reaches out to touch my bicep. My puny muscles all but disappear in his grasp. “It’s sexy.”

I swallow hard, blinking to stay focused. Every brush of his body against mine has turned into an electrical shock to my tired brain. “You didn’t answer me.”

“Superstitions, right.” He releases me, standing up straight. “Some guys have the same ritual every game day. They get up at the same time, eat the same thing. They wear the exact game gear, including the same pair of socks or jockstrap they had on for the last win.”

I pause, scrunching up my nose. “They don’t wash them, do they?”

“Of course not.”

“Gross!”

“You’ll wash the luck out!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Time out,” I demand, forming a stern T with my hands. “Do
you
do that?”

“The socks or the jock?”

“Oh my God,” I moan mournfully.

“The socks or the jock?!”

“It doesn’t matter! It’s disgusting either way!”

He steps back from the island, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “It’s not that disgusting.”

“How long are you in that gear? How many hours?”

“Not that many.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

I collapse onto the island in despair. “Five fucking hours?!”

“I’m not sweating the whole time,” he laughs.

“Get out of my kitchen,” I demand, pointing to the exit. “Get the hell out of my kitchen, you dirty bastard.”

“You don’t wanna know dirty. I have stories that will make you sick.”

“Please keep them to yourself.”

“Can’t handle ‘em?”

“Not at four in the morning. I can’t handle much of anything at four in the morning.”

Colt’s eyes bounce around the room. “What can I do to help?”

“You can help me flip donuts,” I reply, shoving myself off the island with a groan. “You’ll even get your very own flipping stick to—“

I stop as the music changes, my ears catching the first few bars of the next song. That’s all I need for my blood to run cold before boiling like fire. I grab the slim, black remote off the shelf by the door, reaching through to point it at the stereo behind the counter in the next room. The music abruptly falls silent.

I can feel Colt watching me and I know I should have been more subtle about it. I should have groaned and bitched that I hated that song, changed it to something else. Or I could have endured it. I could have pretended that I don’t mind it. But I’ve spent months avoiding that same damn song like it’s herpes and I can’t stop now. Killing it is a reflexive.

“Not a Cassie Carlyle fan, huh?” he asks, his voice deep and penetrating.

I sigh, dropping the remote back down on the shelf. “Her real name’s not Cassie Carlyle. It’s Cassie Mentz. And no, I’m not a fan.”

“Of her or her music?”

“All of the above,” I grumble, checking the temperature on the fryer.

“What’s your beef with her?”

“You don’t want to hear it. Trust me.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

My natural instinct is to tell him there’s nothing to talk about. That everything is fine. That’s what I’ve learned to do over the last couple years. My dad is fine. Michael is fine. We’re all fine. The whole damn world is fine, just fine. Thanks for asking.

But here’s the thing; Colt is asking. Like,
really
asking. When I turn to him to tell him it’s nothing worth talking about, he’s watching. He’s looking deep and he’s asking for truth, and I’m struggling to remember the last time someone did that. The last time someone wanted more than a cursory answer that relieved them of their social duty to inquire in the first place.

I wave him over. “Come here. Come help me.”

I grab the tray of donuts, each one formed into the distinctly oblong shape of a football; Colt’s choosing. He happily takes a couple of flipping sticks from me when I offer.

“Rona and I went to school with Cassie,” I tell him as I drop the dough balls into the sizzling oil. “I was in choir and theater with her. We were close. Well, Cassie and I were. Rona has always hated her a little. I introduced her to my brother when we were in high school. They dated for seven years. She became part of our family, like a sister. She’d come over on Christmas and Thanksgiving. We performed in every school play together and she made it clear that she wanted to be a star someday. A singer on a stage in front of the world. We all supported her, especially Michael. He helped her record demos and sent them out for her. For Christmas one year he paid for her to shoot a music video and put it on the internet; all the things she was too afraid to do because she was afraid to fail. But he believed in her. We all thought they were going to get married. So did Michael.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Time to flip,” I warn him. I show him how to use his sticks to flip the donuts bobbing in the golden oil.

He’s awful at it. Baking is definitely not his thing. I pick up the pace, finishing off the majority of the donuts before he can fumble them.

“Show off,” he whispers with a grin.

I spin a stick between my fingers like a drummer on a stage. “You have your talents, I have mine.”

“Why didn’t they get married?”

I scowl into the fryer, watching the oil bubble and burn. The scent mingles with his, the woodsy with the sugary, and it’s not as nauseating as it should be. I find myself drifting toward him. The crazy thought of leaning against his side, of resting my tired head on his big shoulder, flies through my mind. I swat it away before it can land.

“The music video went viral,” I tell him, stifling a yawn. “Suddenly Cassie had agents knocking on her door. She signed with one and immediately went on tour as an opening act for some folk rock band that was big up in Seattle. Thanks to them her album blew up and she got her own tour the next year. She showed up on the Billboard charts, every radio station in the country, and talk shows morning, noon, and night. And just when you thought you couldn’t blink without seeing her face somewhere, she disappeared.”

“She’s still doing publicity. I saw her on Conan a week ago.”

“No, I mean she disappeared from our lives.” I use my sticks to quickly pull the donuts out of the fryer and flip them back onto the tray. “She stopped calling Michael. Quit texting all of us. Dropped off social media. No explanation. She just cut us all off.”

“Were she and your brother having trouble?”

“She was cheating on him,” I answer frankly. “She got caught by the paparazzi twice. When Michael called her out on it, she cried. She flew home from Berlin and swore she loved him and that she’d do better. He believed her. He forgave her. Then she did it again, and after that I was done with her. So were my parents. But Michael wasn’t. He said they were doing better. That they were gonna make it. That’s when she ghosted him.”

Colt watches silently as I slide the tray of donuts onto the island before going to the proofer for another set. I slowly lower them into the oil, watching them dance and swirl on contact. They’re mesmerizing. The pattern weirdly soothing. Hypnotic.

“So that’s your issue with fame? With me?” Colt asks. His tone is carefully unaffected. “You think I’m like that? You think I’m going to do what she did?”

I shake my head minutely. “I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t know what you’re doing right now. What we’re doing here together.”

“We’re hanging out. We’re making donuts.”

“What if I don’t want donuts? What if I want something else?”

“Like what?”

I lick my lips, unsure how to answer that. What
do
I want? And is it too early to say it? I’ve known the guy for all of a minute and he’s a serial player. Am I really about to throw down the gauntlet and start making demands?

But if not now, when? How is it wrong to be honest with what I want right from the beginning, especially if I’m worried he wants something else entirely?

A donut is delicious, a saccharine sin you devour in a hurry, but it’s nothing special. You can get one cheap and fast at a gas station if you’re craving it, but that’s not me, and if that’s what he wants then I need to tell him now. Let him know he should be shopping at another bakery.

I look up at him, meeting his eyes with my heart in my throat, and I know then how much I really do like him, because I’m nervous over what’s about to happen.

“I want tiramisu,” I tell him certainly, swallowing my hesitance. “Sweet and complicated. Caffeinated. Bad for you but so fucking good it’s worth it. Every last bite.”

His eyes search mine, his face uncommonly austere. “I’ve never had tiramisu.”

“It’s not for everyone. I wouldn’t judge you if you didn’t want it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he counters, turning toward me.

“It doesn’t exactly fit in with your lifestyle. Tiramisu means taking it slow.”

Colt nods languidly. “I can go slow.”

I smirk at him. “Really,
Sugar Rush
? Are you sure?”

His hand touches my hip, making me jump and melt instantaneously. He pulls me toward him until he’s practically leaning over me, his large body eclipsing me, narrowing my view to the stunning stars of his eyes and his lips curved low like the moon; crescent and cunning.

“Am I sure I can take you slowly?” he asks, his voice vibrating in my blood. In my everything. “Yeah. I can do that. I can do that for as long as you want me to.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding me on purpose,” I reply breathlessly, my head swimming. My synapses sparking. Fizzling. His arms are going around my waist. His hips pressing against mine. I have a limited amount of brain power left before I get stupid. Before this complex confection is reduced to a cruller in his hands.

“I understand you just fine.” He lowers his head. “You want to go slow.”

I raise my arms, my hands skimming over the roll of his shoulders. “Yes.”

He touches the tip of his nose to mine. “You want something real.”

“Yes.”

His lower lip brushes feather light against my upper, his breath hot against my skin.

My body clenches tightly in riposte.

“You want
me
,” he whispers sensuously.

I can barely breathe as I sigh, “Yes.”

The hot feel of his mouth closing on mine is everything I’ve been hungry for,
starving
for, for the last year.

I’ve kissed other men. I’ve been in their arms as they thrust their tongue inside my mouth and taken what they wanted from me, but never before did it feel like I was being fed. Satiated. That’s what it is to kiss Colt. To be kissed
by
him, devoured by him. I’m made more. I’m magnified. I’m melting and pooling, expanding into something I forgot how to be in the hours spent giving everything I had to the store and Michael and my family, pretending we’re fine, pretending we’re solid when what we really are is a thin shadow of what we used to be. I’m a ghost, a whisper, but in Colt’s arms I’m alive. I’m a cry in the darkness so loud it makes your ears ring, and
oh god,
does it feel good.

My hands tangle together at the back of his head in his hair, pulling him closer as I kiss him harder. His hand is on my ass, pulling me forward and up until I’m on my toes, the weakness in my legs giving way to the strength in his arms.