Scoring Off The Ice (Ice Kings #2) - Stacey Lynn Page 0,29
table, across from each other. I drag one of the placemats to the end of the table so I can sit closer to her and meet her at the island where all the food is set up.
My stomach rumbles again and Paisley giggles.
“My stomach already loves what you’ve made.”
“You should be grateful. This is one of the few things I can make decently.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Well, I try, but let’s just say I know how to confidently use a fire extinguisher.” She winks at me. She can easily make fun of herself in a way that’s light and fun. Shrugging, she says, “Mostly, I think cooking for one seems like a hassle. Like there will always be leftovers for days.”
“You did make enough to feed a family,” I tease and I hope the tone is right.
She glances at the food spread all over my island. Her eyes turn as large as supper plates as she takes in the overflowing bowl of bread she’s not only cooked but cut and set up like we’re hosting a party. Or she’s trying to impress.
“I guess I did.” She shrugs a shoulder and slides down, filling her plate with food and a bowl for the salad. I do the same, my helpings twice as much as hers and that’s only because it’s all the plate can hold. I meet her at the table, aware she’s scooted away from where I moved the other placemat.
It’s still better than being across from her.
“Damn.” I was right before. I groan as the first taste of spaghetti hits my mouth. Garlic. Spices. The sauce is thick and flavorful. “God. This is incredible.”
She shoots me a glance and tucks back into her own dish. “Thank you.”
I’m so hungry, I shove the food into my mouth so fast I probably look like a slob. I don’t care. I’m starving and this is just what I need. Paisley doesn’t seem concerned at all about the lack of conversation. She’s staring out the window, eating almost as fast as me.
I imagine as soon as we’re done, she will bathe Angelo and take off before I can thank her.
Only I don’t have enough experience—or game as my teammates call it—to get her to stay.
I don’t know why she moved away from me so quickly but I know she liked it when I touched her.
And almost kissed her. I bet her pink lips will be soft. They’re round, her bottom more full. And I can’t help but watch her swallow. The slide of her throat. Every time she wraps her lips around her fork I start thinking of other things she can do with her mouth.
If it makes me a jerk, I’m not sure I care.
As soon as I had that weekend with Angela, everything changed. I loved sex. Loved running my hand over a woman’s breasts, the punch of heat when I brushed her slick center. Discovering how I could get nipples to harden and then what I can do with my tongue to get Angela’s hips to buck against my mouth was like solving a puzzle. And all women are different. The only reason I haven’t done more is because I don’t want weekend hook-ups. I get enough attention walking down the sidewalk or when I’m out to eat. The gaping, wide-eyed looks. It’s only cute if they’re kids doing the gaping. But women?
I have never liked the attention from them. That gleam of pursuit for a goal and not a person makes my skin itch.
Yet, here I am with Paisley who didn’t know who I was until a couple days ago and I can barely get her to look at me.
I’m not sure which is worse.
“He’s so slippery. I feel like I will drop him!”
Next to me, Paisley giggles. She pours warm water over Angelo’s head as he turns toward it.
Bonus to having her teach me how to bathe him, she has to be close to me. Her arm keeps brushing mine. I want to have her always help me with bath time.
It’s a weird kink, maybe. Planning a baby’s bath only to be with a woman. But I like when she’s close to me, teaching me, her soft hand on my back, encouraging me. Granted, that happened once and she yanked her hand away as fast as she could, but still. After avoiding me for most of the dinner and then insisting on cleaning up while Angelo woke up mad and angry and starving, she willingly touched me.