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Is he going to drag me inside, rip my clothes off, make me come on the stairs before our time together finishes all too soon, or does he have a plan?

I’m not naive. I know what this is. It’s a hookup. And I’m more than on board with that. But … there’s also a part of me that wants more than that. I want to get to know him. Not Nash the hockey player, but Cooper the artist.

I need to tell him; I know I do. But I also know that I probably won’t say a single thing. I can’t risk fucking up another night between us.

I need this.

I need this so fucking badly.

Maybe I’ll confess after.

Or maybe I won’t.

Damn it.

I know what I should do. I know what’s right. But there’s this little devil sitting on my shoulder pointing out that as soon as I confess, whatever it is we’ve found here might be over. I’m not ready for that. Meeting Nash online has been the best thing that’s happened to me since moving back to LA.

Thankfully, as I get closer to the house, movement inside catches my attention, dragging me from my thoughts, and the next thing I know, the front door is opening to reveal the man himself.

My mouth instantly runs dry at the sight of him wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants that are riding low on his hips. His body is insane, and those two valleys that dip beneath the fabric point to what I already know is a cock worthy of worshiping…fuck, those indents drive me insane.

And not only that—as I close the space between us, it becomes obvious that he isn’t wearing anything beneath.

That thick cock is perfectly outlined by the fabric of his sweats, and I want it. I want it now.

“Hey, you came,” Nash rasps, successfully dragging my eyes back up to his face, which is also just as incredible to look at.

I hold his gaze for a second before my lips curl into a smirk.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

He shrugs one shoulder as he steps back, allowing me to slip into his house. It’s warm and smells like home, despite the nerves that have only gotten stronger now that I’ve seen him.

“I didn’t deserve for you to. About last time, I⁠—”

“It’s okay,” I assure him, sensing that he doesn’t really want to dive into whatever happened during my first visit.

“I don’t make a habit of answering my cell during…you know…”

“Sex?” I finish for him when he trails off.

“Yeah. It’s just…there are a couple of people who need me and⁠—”

“I said it’s okay,” I repeat, reaching out to touch his forearm once he’s closed the door behind us.

The second my fingers brush his skin, his eyes drop to where we’re connected.

He feels it too.

“I shouldn’t have sent you away,” he says regretfully.

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I came back.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You want a drink or…”

“Or?” I tease.

I vividly remember what he was like that night. He had a filthy mouth and wasn’t afraid to use it. So seeing him looking a little unsure of himself now is surprising. Endearing.