by Chantal Mer
“You work here or something?” He walks around like he owns the place.
I don’t mean that he acts like an asshole or anything. On the contrary, he’s smiled and waved to everyone we’ve come in contact with. He’s stopped and chatted and clapped when the three-year-old skating class showed him they could glide. He’s at home here, and everyone seems to love him.
“Just here a lot. I hate rentals,” Isaiah says as he laces his skate up with efficiency and precision. “But I’m afraid that if I go out to my car to get my skates, you’ll bolt.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, a sly grin playing on his lips, and I have an undeniable urge to kiss him.
But I do deny the urge. The biggest lesson I’ve learned over the years is that of restraint.
Except for that kiss in the office.
That kiss was…
Unexpected.
Hot.
A mistake.
And will not happen again. It can’t. No good will come from me kissing Isaiah.
I’m thankful for muscle memory when I nimbly pull and tug at my laces even as my stomach feels like a bench-clearing brawl is going on inside. Because right now, my brain is playing that kiss on repeat.
There can be no more kissing.
Being seen with me would be bad enough for Isaiah and his charity, imagine the backlash if people found out we were anything other than business associates.
As if sensing the shift in my mood, Isaiah bumps my shoulder with his. “No need to be so serious, Ash. You’re allowed to have fun. I won’t tell anyone.”
The brawl is replaced with the light, fluffy feeling that infiltrates all my walls and barriers anytime Isaiah is present.
“Let’s go.” He holds out his hand, and without thinking, I take it.
The first step onto the ice is like a reunion with a long lost friend. For all of my reluctance to ever skate again, I’ve missed it. Missed the whip of the air on my cheeks as I pick up speed. Missed the bite of the cold on the tip my nose, ears, and chin before skating hard enough and fast enough to work up a sweat. Missed the sound of blades to ice, cutting, and slicing as I turn and move and spin.
We’re the only two on the freshly Zambonied surface. Isaiah watches me as he skates backward at a smooth and steady speed. His coat is thrown over the side of the boards but I notice he’s still wearing the gloves I gave him last night.
And I like it.
I like him wearing my things.
I toss my jacket next to his. Hands in my pockets, I skate toward him. He looks me up and down, the corner of his mouth tilts, but he doesn’t say anything.
Just looks.
I like that too. Let’s face it, I like everything about this man. He’s so…centered. So kind. So positive. He has every reason not to be.
When his dad was in the league, there were only four African American players in the NHL. By the time Isaiah and I were in the league, there were six, and maybe six Latino players.
The NHL has thirty-one teams. Each team has a max of twenty-three players on it. That’s a total of seven-hundred-thirteen players at a given time. Out of seven-hundred-thirteen players, less than thirty were non-white. So yeah, Isaiah has every right and reason to be angry, bitter. Hell, he should be angry and bitter for what I did to him if nothing else. And maybe he is, but he’s focused his energy on enjoying life and doing good.
I want to be more like him.
“You think you have it in you to race, Delacroix?” He expertly spins and takes off, his arms and legs pushing him farther and farther away.
“It’s Ariti now,” I call as I chase after him. I still cringe at the person I was when I carried the Delacroix name.
“Delacroix. Ariti. Doesn’t matter what you call yourself. I’ll still kick your ass.” His teeth gleam as he skates circles around me before gliding to my side. “What do you say? First to do the length of the rink and back cooks dinner?”
I chuckle. “How’s your cooking?”
He puts his hand over his chest like I’ve bestowed the biggest insult imaginable on him. “I cook pasta and baked chicken.”
“Sauce from the jar?”
His grin is playful and tempting. “How else are you supposed to make sauce?”
“Remind me to sign you up for cooking lessons.” I bump his shoulder with mine.
Spinning, so he’s in front of me, skating backward again, he says, “Only if you’re the teacher.”
Sex.
I can’t help it, but I immediately think of sex.
Specifically, sex with Isaiah.
Not good.
As I swallow the lump of attraction, I lose my edge and hit the ice. I pitch forward, taking Isaiah with me but his steady and powerful arms keep us on our feet. When we settle, his body is pressed to mine, the heat leaving me breathless. The warm fluffy feeling is replaced with hot hunger. When his lips touch the base of my neck, I want to devour him. Want to push him to the boards, strip him, and see if we can melt the ice.
Instead, a groan escapes.
His tongue circles my collar bone, and his hardness swells with mine. My brain says push him away, pull back, but my hands—which have somehow found their way to the hot as hell ass I ogled earlier—squeeze and bring him closer.
This time the moan is his, but the tremor is mine.
I find his ear, tracing the rim with my tongue before tugging on the lobe with my teeth. Feeling him, tasting him, hearing him, battling for dominance with him.
I want it all.
All of him.
Our tongues war with each other, the only casualty my throbbing dick. Somewhere in the recesses of my sex-starved mind, my brain is working hard to fire off the message that this is a terrible idea. But all of the kindling needed to start any type of fire has been confiscated and is hurdling to my dick. The bonfire my cock has built is big enough to heat a small village.
Before I know it, my ass hits the back of the boards, and Isaiah has a hand on either side, pinning me. And surprise, surprise, I like it. He’s not intimidated by my size and the use of his strength is a turn-on.
Like I needed another reason to be turned on by this man.
My hands find the elastic holding his dreads, and I release it, wanting to free his beautiful hair.
The tips of his hair tickle the back of my hands, sending a zing spiraling to the base of my spine. The plush of the cashmere sweater is in delicious contrast to the hard planes of his chest and torso. And I am close to tearing the offending garment from his body.
“Uh-em…” In the distance, a clearing of a throat.
And another.
And another.
My synapses begin retreating from my dick the same time Isaiah seems to come to his senses. He pulls his mouth from mine, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession, and looks over his shoulder while I stare at the pulse in his neck.
“Um, sorry to interrupt, Isaiah, but Karen asked me to let you know that we have a group coming in about twenty minutes.” Trevor’s voice sounds embarrassed. But I can’t take my eyes from the quick movements of Isaiah’s pulse, moving in time to the pounding of my heart—which I’m certain Trevor can hear from his post on the other side of the rink.
“We’re leaving. Thanks, Trevor.” Calm and controlled, Isaiah speaks, never giving away that we were caught making out like a couple of kids who sneaked out of the school-sponsored dance to get busy in the parking lot.
The door swooshes open.
Seconds later, the bump of it closing echoes through the charged air, leaving Isaiah and me alone. Again.
“What time will you be done at the restaurant tonight?” The press of his palm on my back does nothing to calm my nerves or my cock.
My eyes firmly planted on his slowing pulse, I try to focus on his question and not the scent of woodsy cocoa butter.
“Late,” I rasp out.
“Can I see you after?” He sounds hopeful, which only makes me feel like a bigger jerk.
“That’s not a go
od idea.”
The look on his face is the same look I imagined he had when I came at him from behind, shock, disbelief, and outrage.
As hard as it is to believe, I feel worse than I did seeing him unconscious on the ice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Isaiah
I beat on my unsuspecting keyboard as I type out the last of the email responses, when my phone chirps, indicating a text. My stupid stomach flips then flops when I see it’s a text from Alejandro.
Alejandro: What’d you do to my friend yesterday?
I glower at the phone. It’s close to midnight, over twenty-four hours since the hottest make-out session I’ve had in my life, only to be told that seeing me, Isn’t a good idea.
Asshole.
Isaiah: Nothing.
Alejandro: He’s been a dick ever since he came back from the ice rink.
Isaiah: Sounds like his problem.
I know Ash isn’t where I’m at in forgiving himself. And God knows if it weren’t for my mom and her Comin’ to Jesus talks, plus the help of a good therapist, I’d still be full of self-loathing. It’s just…
Ash and I have chemistry. But it’s more than that, too. There’s this pull, this need to be there for him and to have him there for me. It’s strange.
Alejandro: I see.
Isaiah: There’s nothing to see.
I shouldn’t be taking my frustrations out on Alejandro. He’s the reason I was able to coax Ash out of hiding, and I get the sense that Alejandro is rooting for us. Not that there’s an us, per se, but from what he told me yesterday morning, he wants to see Ash happy. Why he thinks Ash’s happiness includes me has been called into question after recent events.
I get up and stretch, hands at the center of my lower back, I lean back focusing on the stretch of my muscles and not the pang in my chest. “C’mon, Grinder. Time to go out.”
My brindle mastiff looks at me from his memory-foam doggy bed in the corner like I’ve just told him it’s time to go to the vet.
I nudge the lazy dog with my toe.
“C’mon, big guy. Real quick, and then we’ll go to bed.” He snorts and lumbers from his bed, and I chuckle. “Don’t act put out. You’ve got the life.” I pull the jowl towel from the basket next to the door and wipe the ever-present drool.
Since adopting the big lug from the animal shelter two years ago, I’ve become one of those pet parents. The dog has a memory-foam mattress. I don’t have a memory foam mattress for God’s sake. And yes, I let him sleep with me—all one-hundred-fifty pounds of him—in my bed. It’s not like anyone else has been warming that side recently, and it doesn’t look like anyone will be anytime soon either.
Pulling my coat from the hook by the door, I slip my feet into my boots while Grinder stares at me like he wishes I’d hurry up so he can get back to his busy schedule of sleeping. After hooking his leash to his collar, I swing open the door and stumble back when—standing, knuckles raised in mid-knock—I come face-to-face with Ash.
His dark hair is covered by a black wool beanie, and the dim light from the stoop doesn’t hide the dark circles under his hazel eyes. The gray puffer jacket makes him look bigger than he is.
“Hi?” He scratches out the word like he’s asking a question.
“Hello.” I sound way too formal, but the concoction of emotions overflowing has taken away any control over my speech pattern or voice.
Grinder huffs his annoyance at our slow descent outside, thereby causing him to be away from his bed for longer than he cares. Ash seems to spot him for the first time—though how anyone could miss my horselike dog is unbelievable—and smiles. “Hi, buddy.” He rests his hand in front of Grinder’s nose, who sniffs it, and finding it acceptable, nudges it for a pet.
Ash’s smile grows as he scratches Grinder between the ears. “You’re a sweet one. What’s your name?”
My disloyal dog takes a step closer to Ash and leans into him. Before I can ask Ash why he’s here, two eyes and a furry wet nose peek out from the space between the top of Ash’s coat and his chin. Swishing, wiggling, and whining have Ash unzipping his jacket and bending.
“Okay, okay, you little terror. Hold on.” Lifting what looks like a New York City rat with longer fur from his chest, Ash places the squirming bundle in its red puffer jacket and red hair bow at Grinder’s feet, which are bigger than the wriggling rat. “This is Cilantro, Cila, for short.”
Grinder bends his enormous head, and Cila’s butt twists and shakes so hard it looks like she’ll propel herself off the steps. Grinder nudges her. Hopping on her hind legs, she licks his jowl. His big tail wags, banging the wall with each back and forth.
When my gaze meets Ash’s, his smile falters slightly. “I think they like each other.”
“Seems they do.” I tug Grinder’s leash and step out of the house. “I was just taking him for a quick walk before bed.”
Ash scoops Cila, his hands dwarfing her, and backs down the three steps to the sidewalk. “It’s late. We shouldn’t have come over without calling.”
Grinder lumbers down the steps, and Cila just about wiggles herself from Ash’s hands. When he lets her down, she runs under and between Grinder’s legs with little yips and noses him. I swear my dog smiles at her antics, and honestly, I can’t help but chuckle at the bundle of energy in her red coat.
“You can join us.” I nod at the two dogs who are now sniffing a tree. “They seem to want to hang out.”
“They do. What’s his name?” He tucks his hands into his pockets in a way that makes him seem almost shy and innocent.
“Grinder.”
The apples of his cheeks round and he nods. “Nice.”
“Are you sure that’s a dog?” I point to Cila.
His big shoulders lift. “They keep telling me she is, but I think she’s a gerbil hopped-up on energy drinks.”
We walk the quiet street in silence. Strangely, it’s comfortable, like we don’t need to fill the space between us with unnecessary words.
On our way back to my house, I finally ask the unasked question, “Why are you here, Ash?”
“Can I come in? I won’t stay long…”
“Yeah, c’mon in.” I unlock the door, and the dogs saunter in—well, Grinder saunters, Cila bounces.
“Cila. Coat.” The commanding tone stops the hyperactive fur ball’s movements and causes my dick to take notice.
Once Ash removes the dog’s jacket, she tears off after Grinder, who’s circling on his bed. Grinder stops when Cila lands between his front feet. I hold my breath and watch. Grinder’s always been a mellow fellow, but he’s never been exposed to another dog with energy like Cila. One missed step, and Grinder could break Cila’s little back. But my big guy steps aside, circles once, and lays down. Cila wiggles her way in between Grinder’s feet before he can rest his head, circles, then drops. Grinder looks at her, then me, and back at her before plopping his head back with a contented sigh. Cila, in turn, rests her chin on Grinder’s front leg and closes her eyes.
I chuckle and shake my head. “She’s a bossy little thing, isn’t she?”
“You have no idea,” Ash says with amused devotion.
“You want anything to drink?” I sit on the couch, and Ash follows.
“I’m good.” His knee bounces up and down, much like Cila when she walks, and he keeps his eyes averted. “I should have waited until tomorrow.” He says more to himself than to me.
I’m tired, and although I know I won’t be getting much sleep tonight, I want to get this over, so I’m not inundated with these swirling feelings of desire, desperation, and remorse. Yesterday, when his lips and hands were on me, the swirling inside was that of desire, desperation, and hope.
Amazing what a difference one feeling can make.
“You’re here, so what is it?”
Ash’s eyes cut to mine.
Okay, maybe the question was clipped, but it’s after midnight, and I’ve had a shitty day.
“I’m sorry.”
&nb
sp; “O—kay.”
He stands, then sits, then stands again. “I’m sorry for my behavior yesterday.”
I stiffen. The last thing one wants to hear about the best kiss he’s had in…forever, is that the other person regrets it. “Which behavior?”
Ash pounds his fist against his thigh before he plants his bottom on the edge of the cushion like, given the word, he’ll bolt. I should be used to his retreating by now, but my annoyance bristles at the thought that he may suddenly leave again.
“All of it.” Knee bouncing, fingers tapping, jaw ticking. “I’m sorry for putting you in an awkward position. I’m sorry for putting your charity at risk. I’m sorry—”
I hold up my hand. “Whoa. Back up.”
He blinks.
His knee slows.
Fingers slow.
Jaw twitches.
“When was I in an awkward position? And what did you do to put the charity at risk?”
The knee begins its dance again. “I kissed you and—”
“I kissed you, too. In fact, I initiated the kiss. Both times.” My tongue runs over my lips in the hopes that the taste of him is still there.
Sadly, it’s not.
“But that Trevor kid saw us. If the media gets a whiff of us linked romantically, it could affect your charity negatively.”
My lips curve. “Are we romantically linked?”
His eyes widen. “What? No.” He stands, looking around the living room like he’s forgotten something. “We can’t be. People hate me. Still use me as an example of what not to be.”
“What if I don’t care what people think?” I stand but remain where I am. “What if I want to be linked romantically with you?”
I follow the line of his throat as he swallows, the black stubble, thicker than it was yesterday. He’s still but for the thumping of his fist against his leg. “W-why would you want to be linked with me in any way, particularly romantically?”
I take a step. “I like you, and I know you’re a good man.”
“You don’t know that.”
Another step. “I know you came to see me in the hospital. I know you’ve donated to my charity every year since its inception.” Another step. “I know mine isn’t the only charity. I know you have a special table set aside at your restaurant so people who are homeless can sit down and have a meal free of charge. I also know it’s the best table in the place. I know—”
