Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I set my water bottle on the table and wandered to the bookshelves. I poked through a row of thick science textbooks, studying the titles till my eyes crossed. Classical Mechanics, Error Analysis and the Study of Measurements, Modern Physics, Electro…
What the fuck?
I craned my neck and tugged at the spine, jolting at the sound of someone clearing his throat.
“Are you snooping, or are you genuinely interested in electromagnetism?”
“Definitely snooping.” I shoved the book into place and turned to greet Malcolm.
Christ, he looked good. He wore a dark-green V-neck sweater and khakis and his hair was damp and a little messy, but he smelled amazing. I wondered what kind of shampoo he used or maybe it was his soap or his cologne or—
Shit, I was staring.
Malcolm didn’t notice. Thank fuck.
I’d spent half of last night convincing myself I was interested in the blond who’d glued herself to my side at Vincento’s while I’d craved someone else. I’d kissed her and wished it was him. For real. That had actually happened. I’d had my mouth on hers, hands on her hips and ass, and felt absolutely fucking nothing. Nothing.
That was not the norm. At all. I hadn’t had the heart, or lack thereof, to fake it. I could have. I’d done it dozens of times. But going down on a woman while fantasizing about a man hadn’t seemed right.
Okay…no, that wasn’t it.
Sex was sex. There were no feelings involved in hookups. The rules were simple: be respectful and have no expectations. I was a pro at those. I didn’t do serious. Never had. My only “relationship” was in high school and had lasted until prom night, when I’d gotten a woody watching a teammate rub up against his girlfriend. My gaze had been locked on his obvious bulge in the back of the limo we’d shared, not on her tits spilling out of a lacy bodice, not on his fingers disappearing under the hem of her silk dress. No. That was the first time I’d been fascinated by cock.
It had freaked me out for sure, but nowadays, I was more comfortable in my bi skin. I controlled my desire; it didn’t control me…if that made sense.
My control was slipping, though. Every fucking thing about this guy turned me on and I couldn’t figure it out.
Malcolm was cute, not hot. He was quirky, not cool. He wasn’t athletic in the slightest, but he had more confidence than a lot of seasoned hockey players. He knew who he was and what he wanted. And he was willing to try something new to achieve his goals. I admired that kind of drive.
I just wished that I admired the curve of his ass in those khakis a little less as he moved to the small kitchen table and held up a pad of paper and a pen.
“I’m ready to begin. We didn’t discuss how much time to allot for these sessions, but I think forty-five minutes will suffice.”
“Uh…right. That works for me.” I licked my lips, tilting my chin toward the windows. Pull it together, Erickson. “Nice place, by the way. I like your plants.”
“Thank you.”
He blushed. An honest-to-God blush with pink cheeks and averted eyes. I found myself grinning again…for no particular reason.
“Do you have a green thumb?”
I half expected him to change the subject, get down to business, so he could throw my ass out the door in precisely forty-four minutes and twenty seconds, but Malcolm glanced at the plants, nodding as he sat at the table.
“I do. My parents have a large vegetable garden in their yard. I took charge of it from the time I was ten till I left for college. I switched out some of the less-yielding crops for lettuce, corn, and squash, and grew tons of tomatoes. They tend to it now. Sadly, not as well as I did.”
See what I mean about this guy?
“You’re bragging, Maloney. I like that confidence.”
Malcolm snorted. “I’m not bragging. I’m stating a fact. My parents are lovely people yet serial houseplant killers. The vegetables stand a better chance outdoors where Mother Nature can care for them till I arrive to save the day.”
“You’re funny.”
“Hilarious,” he confirmed, pointing at the chair across from him. “Shall we begin?”
“Sure.” I sat, shifting under the weight of his expectant gaze.
“I took the liberty of creating a short syllabus, including a diagram of a rink and an index of hockey terminology.” Malcolm pushed his laptop toward me. “I’ve memorized all of them. Quiz me if you’d like.”
I scrolled through his proposed outline covering etymology, history, tactics, rules, and a very fucking long glossary which included slang. “Whoa. Did you google this?”
“It’s a compilation of sources, each credited in the attached bibliography,” he replied.
“You made a bibliography.”
“Of course. One must give credit where credit is due.” Malcolm scooted his chair closer and reached over to scroll through a list of annotations. “See?”