Felicity

I thought Chester Green’s would be good for Ares. You know, remind him that hockey’s more than just being on the ice. That people still love him even when he’s injured. That he needs to take care of his ankle so he can get back on the ice, and that they’ll wait for him while he’s healing.

My bad.

My total bad.

Because I didn’t really think I’d get approached by four guys when I was sitting with Ares Berger. Who does that? Seriously?

He’s scowling in the passenger seat. The sun set hours ago, but the soft glow of the solar-powered streetlamps and ambient city lights illuminate the interior of the car just enough to make his scowl extra scowly.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

The whole vibe in the car instantly shifts. I cut a look at him, and he’s watching me, growly-face-eater expression gone, something inscrutable lingering instead in his attentive eyes.

“What?” I ask.

Silence isn’t natural. I want to fill it with Lucy, with Tim, with Harold, and with me. All of us talking. But I force myself to let the question linger in the air. To let him talk next.

I’ll be quiet the whole ride home if I have to.

The whole night.

All week.

Okay, fine. I probably couldn’t make it more than about five minutes. It’s been fifteen seconds and I’m already starting to sweat with the effort of not filling the silence.

Silence is fine. When I’m alone. And not practicing my venting.

But it’s weird to be silent with another human being in the car.

I keep my jaw clamped shut. Lips tightly pursed. I’m supposed to swing by Kami’s family’s vet office to get Loki, but I pull over into a grocery store parking lot half a mile away instead.

And then I have a silent stare-down with Ares.

Do you know how long three minutes of silence is?

It’s an eternity. An eternity and a half. And there’s no such thing as an eternity and a half, because eternity, by definition, is eternity.

It’s really too bad I didn’t like physics and chemistry more. I get them. I just don’t get thrilled by them.

Not that accounting was thrilling. Or computer programming. Or bowling management or marketing. But they were easy, so they were fast, and they were supposed to get me closer to a job with the Thrusters.

They didn’t.

“You’re a bunny,” he finally says.

My shoulders hitch, and my stomach sours. “Unless you’re planning on telling me you’ve never slept with a puck bunny, you can shove your judgments up your ass. No. You know what? Even if you’ve never slept with anyone, you can still shove your judgments up your ass. I like big, brave, beefy athletes. And it’s none of your business.”

His lips tip at the edges, that wide mouth showing the barest hint of teeth, and his eyes crinkle.

Not much.

But enough.

He’s amused.

I once politely asked a boyfriend to pass me a fork, he told me to get it my own damn self, I told him he was being rude, and in response I got a lecture about overstepping my bounds and not understanding who wore the pants in that relationship.

If I’d told Doug anything was none of his business, he probably would’ve told me everything about me was his business.

And I can’t decide if Ares being amused is more or less patronizing.

I cock a brow and fold my arms.

At least, I try. I really haven’t mastered that single-brow cock, even though I pretend I have, which means I’m giving him a double-browed glare that probably looks more like I’m a deer facing the headlights but I’m too stupid to do anything more than cross my arms and stand there in the middle of the road and wait for a semi truck to run over me.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

I’m having a stare-down with a blue-eyed beast who could remove me from his Escalade with one hand. There’s a part of me—the brain part—that knows this isn’t my smartest move.

Except there’s another part of me—the heart part—that knows I’m completely, one hundred percent safe with Ares.

The only time I’ve seen him pick a fight on the ice, it was with Zeus. When he picked up Bockman and carried him out of the bar, he took a few slugs in the chest, but he didn’t fight back.

His best friend is an emotional support monkey.

He can scowl like he might bite your arm off, but he’s all talk.

Metaphorically speaking. Obviously.

And he’s staring into me again like he can read my soul.

I swallow. Hard. Because once again, I’m fighting the urge to wonder how he’d be in the bedroom.

Would he be passive? Let me call all the shots? I picture myself ordering him to eat my pussy, and him dropping between my legs, shackles on his wrists, at my complete mercy while he leans in and licks his long tongue up the seam of my womanhood, sucking my clit, flicking at it with his tongue, grazing it with his teeth, and fuck, I’m getting wet.

My mind drifts to fantasies of him walking out of the bathroom, naked and wet, just out of a shower, and I wonder again what kind of tattoo he has. But I don’t wonder for long, because instead, I’m picturing his hard chest, sculpted abs, his hand gripping a long, thick, beefy cock, and—

And I need to stop.

Because he’s not watching me like he’s amused anymore.

No, this is a different growly face.

An intense, in-the-game, flat-lipped, dark-eyed, I’m picturing you naked too face.

He’s not meeting my gaze.

Nope.

His eyes are focused squarely on my lips.

Which I know, because they’re tingling. I dart my tongue out and lick them. It’s instinctive. I can’t help myself.

His eyes go darker, the car shrinks, electricity crackles, and he’s going to kiss me.

Ares Berger is going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let him.

Not just let him. I’m going to kiss him back.

A song erupts from the cup holder between us, and we both leap back.

Nick’s calling.

My brother.

The overprotective ass whose secondary purpose in life is to avenge every last one of my failed relationships.

The bigger problem, though?

I have terrible taste in men. I know this. I have thirteen failed relationships to prove it. I might be book smart, but I’m not people smart.

Even liking people, I’m not people smart.

If I’m attracted to Ares, acting on the attraction is clearly a bad idea, because there’s something wrong with at least one of us.

Considering he doesn’t talk and I have thirteen crazy ex-boyfriends, there’s probably something wrong with both of us.

I fumble for the phone. “Felicity’s happy answering service, how may I direct your call?” I answer as Lucy.

“Fuuuuck, Felicity, what did you do now?” Nick asks.

I shove the phone at Ares. “You know what? You talk to him. I need to drive us to get your monkey.”

I glance at his crotch.

He glances at his crotch.

I go red.

He takes the phone, our fingers brush, and a sizzle burns its way from his touch all the way to my chest, where it makes my nipples sprout unicorn horns.

He grunts into the phone like he doesn’t know my nipples just poked matching holes through my bra, and I wonder if his nipples just sprouted unicorn horns too.

Or if that’s just all in his pants.

“She doing okay, man?” I hear Nick ask while I put the Escalade back in gear and carefully steer us out of the parking lot.

Probably a good thing I didn’t mention to Ares that I’ve had a couple accidents.

Which wouldn’t have happened if statistics weren’t so fascinating. That was a rough semester.

For my car, I mean.

And for my chances of ever getting hired to drive the Zamboni.

Ares grunts again.

“Hey, listen, don’t let her go to Chester Green’s,” Nick says.

Ares growls.

“Aw, fuck, dude. Seriously?”

Ares grunts.

“Appreciate the help, man. Hey, how’s the monkey?”

I wince and cut the corner leaving the parking lot too short, which makes the Escalade hop a curb.

I don’t look at Ares, but I feel him watching me.

And I’d bet half my degrees that he knows I’m once again thinking about his monkey.

The figurative monkey. In his pants.

Not the actual monkey we’re going to pick up.

I definitely have a problem.

And I don’t have any idea how I’m going to fix it.