Dax is not the only one who needs to walk off that tow ride.
“Are you sure?” Dax holds up his phone to show me a map with several tiny car graphics circling the nearby streets.
I nod, and he holds his arms out for one last hug.
“Text me when you get home, okay?” he says into my hair.
“You got it. Call me when you get home?”
He lingers as if he’s considering going in for a kiss, but then looks over at Benny, who is still waiting, and lets go.
“I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”
Chapter 18
He calls.
Well, technically FaceTimes.
As soon as he gets home from Benny’s, he crawls into bed—or at least I imagine it this way. When his face pops onto my screen, all I can focus on is the curve of his bicep as he lazily cradles the back of his head in his palm and the crispness of his white pillow—a stark contrast to the dark stubble on his face. Something about that combo makes me squeeze my thighs together and remember the conversation not too long ago with Kierst, where she insisted a night with Dax would end with a morning of whisker-burned thighs.
We talk for a little while. Then he says good night, and I attempt to self-serve with my Lady Pro 3000. The effort is lacking. I go to bed disappointed. And wake up in the morning with sex on the brain.
As if I’m not struggling enough, he sends a text while I’m walking into Wilde.
Morning beautiful.
Hope you have a good day.
The ping of the second text hits me in the chest and zings all the way down to my clitoris, giving me shivers in a way my Lady Pro couldn’t. I’m like Pavlov’s dog. Phone pinging. Lady parts zinging. I even have to put the phone in my desk drawer because Kiersten starts to send me a play-by-play about some sort of brawl at Riley’s soccer game. Even though I know the texts are from her, the pings have me thinking about the types of things one definitely should not be thinking about while talking to a sixty-three-year-old grandmother of five about her skincare routine.
Then it comes. The text I am waiting for. Though it isn’t from Dax; it’s Sunny again.
Hate to drop this on you at the last minute but any chance you can sub for me tonight? I can’t believe I’m saying this but I have a date. Totally fine if you can’t.
I don’t even ask her about the guy, or girl for that matter. My libido’s too riled up to think of anything but that now I am definitely going to see Dax tonight, which leads me to wonder if we’ll pick up where we left off—after the game, of course.
He texts not long after Sunny.
Heard you’re filling in tonight. Been thinking about you all day. Got a meeting at the bank, but I’ll meet you at the game. Can’t wait to see you.
I melt into a puddle of goo on the floor.
After I re-form, I manage to finish my workday with minimal sex fantasies and get myself to the bus stop to make it to the game. The bus, however, has not prioritized my sex life. It comes late, so I am late, only making it onto the ice with seconds to spare. There’s not enough time to talk to Dax alone and confirm the things I would like to confirm: like the odds I’ll be seeing his penis later.
I’m horny. Like, teenage-boy horny. It’s just that Dax looks so good. He’s wearing the same thing he always wears, but the black sweatpants are maybe sitting a little lower than normal. And every time he reaches up for a high five, I can see that little dip below his hip bone, and it’s driving me feral.
Dax loves to throw the high fives, and I have to physically restrain myself from sliding up to him and dragging my tongue along that thin strip of skin and biting. Since when am I a biter? If I had ever attempted to bite Stuart, he would have sent me the contact info for his therapist, followed by articles about uncovering my childhood traumas.
Uh, gross. I don’t want to think about Stuart at all right now.
Not while I have sweatpanted Dax in my line of sight. Crouching. And stretching. And exposing just the tiniest trail of belly hair just below his navel.
I have that song in my head. That clichéd one with no words that everyone knows means sex. It’s playing over and over like a porno soundtrack. Dax bends down to assess his shot. Bow-chicka-wow-wow. Dax leans over to sweep the ice. Bow-chicka-wow-wow. Dax stands there doing absolutely nothing but suddenly looks up. Even though there is a good hundred feet of ice between us, my insides burn like they’re on fire. Bow chic—
“Gemma…Gemma!”
I think it takes Dougie three tries to get my attention. And he’s either a lot more perceptive than I’ve ever given him credit for, or the expression on my face is so thirsty that half this arena can figure out there’s an elaborate sex fantasy going on in my head.