“It’s right . . .” His voice is low and rough. And I can’t stop staring at his expression. The way he’s watching my mouth is almost filthy, like I can read every thought flashing through his mind without even trying.
My lips pop open, ever so slightly at the thought of him closing the distance, gripping my head, and pressing his lips to mine. Giving me a taste of what I’ve fantasized about.
He’s leaned close when his gentle fingers cup the bottom of my chin. His thumb hovers over the cleft there, like he’s questioning touching me at all.
When the pad of his thumb brushes just beneath my lower lip, it’s feather light. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end and my eyes flutter shut.
But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate.
His thumb caresses over my top lip, a strangled groan catching in the back of his throat. My breathing becomes more labored, and when I catch sight of the expression on his face, I’m panting.
The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s not polite. It’s primal.
I lean forward—right into him—seeking his touch, seeking the promise in his eyes. And I make no move to distance myself from him.
When his thumb makes its next swipe, it’s over my bottom lip and this time it’s rougher, pressing my lip down to the side while his eyes go molten, his body held taut.
“There,” he growls, still transfixed by my mouth.
“Rhett,” I breathe, not sure what else to say. My nipples rasp against the silk cups of the bra, and the trim of my panties graze my core in a way that has me sighing louder than is appropriate.
“Mm.” His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s a question in their depths. I swear if I closed the distance between us, he’d make me glad I did.
But his career is hanging by a thread, and I promised to help. To be a professional who can handle working with athletes. And knowing what I know of Rhett Eaton, my heart would be in shambles right along with his reputation if we were to close the distance between us.
“We should go to sleep.” I clear my throat and sit back, pulling away.
I know I made the right decision. Even though my relief is laced with disappointment. The same disappointment I see flash across his face as he jolts back like I’ve slapped him.
But it disappears quickly, replaced by a blank face and eyes that won’t meet mine as he silently starts tidying the room.
We almost kissed.
That’s the thought playing on repeat in my head as I lie here. In his bed.
I’m new to a job that requires me to work with hot athletes every damn day, and after a short amount of time being out in the wild with one, I’m confused as fuck.
Excellent work, Summer.
The blanket feels like it’s rubbing too heavily against my skin, and my heart is pounding erratically. Even under the covers, I can’t seem to shake the chill. I almost got up to get myself a pair of socks, but I don’t want to disturb Rhett.
I’ve been lying in the dark room for I don’t know how long, listening to Rhett breathing, the hum of the heater every time it turns on, the ding of the elevator, and the dull thud of footfalls in the hallway followed by hushed voices as other people head to their rooms.
Sleep has evaded me so far, and based on the way my mind is spinning, it will continue to hover just beyond my grasp. Especially since all my thoughts and feelings are blending together with an intense sense of guilt that Rhett’s injured and sleeping on the floor.
I was still too tongue-tied to put up a fight when he grabbed what he needed and set himself up on the carpet.
A sigh that borders on a groan filters from where he’s sleeping.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, shifting around.
“Are you sore?”
“No.”
I roll my lips together and stare at the fire alarm above me, the tiny green dot a point to fix my gaze on. “Are you lying?”
He grunts in response, which I’m almost certain means he’s lying.
“Rhett.”
“Summer.” He sounds exasperated with me.
“Stop being difficult and come sleep in the bed.”
Silence fills the room, and I wonder if he heard me at all.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he rasps.
I already am. Uncomfortably horny. But I don’t say that. “You won’t. What’s making me uncomfortable is that you’re sleeping on a dirty floor with an injured shoulder or back. Get your ass up here.”
He blows out a deep breath in response, and I hear the rustling of blankets as his form takes shape across the room. When he comes to sit on the bed, the mattress dips beneath him and he scrubs at his face. The sound of his stubble rasping against his hands is more pronounced in the dark.