“Jersey off. I need to check?—”
“Marnie.”
“—make sure there’s no inflammation or?—”
“Marnie.”
I stop. Lookat him.
He’s standing there dripping sweat in my medical room, eyes bright with adrenaline and want.
“I need to check your shoulder,” I tell him, but my voice wavers.
“I know.” He moves closer, starts working his jersey over his head one-handed. The other hand—the one attached to the shoulder I spent twelve weeks rehabbing—reaches for my face. “But first I need to do something.”
“Roman, we can’t?—”
“Tell me you didn’t watch me score and think about this.”
“That’s not?—”
“Tell me you weren’t thinking about Vancouver. About that equipment room. About every time we’ve almost?—”
“Your shoulder?—”
“Is perfect. Because of you.” His thumb traces my jawline. “You know it is. That’s not why you’re freaking out.”
He’s right. God, he’s right. The shoulder’s fine. Better than fine. I did my job perfectly, and now he’s here in my space, touching me, and I want to check his joint stability but I also want to pull him closer and that’s the problem.
“Door,” I manage.
He reaches past me, flips the lock. The click echoes in the small room.
“Now,” he says, voice dropping lower. “Check my shoulder.”
It’s not a request. It’s a challenge.
I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing. “On the table.”
“Make me.”
“Are you serious right now?”
He lifts me by the waist, sets me on the treatment table instead. Steps between my knees.
“Or you could stay here, and I could show you exactly how functional my shoulder is.”
My brain short-circuits. Professional thoughts scatter.
“This is a bad idea,” I breathe.
“Terrible,” he agrees, but he’s leaning closer, mouth hovering just above mine. “Want me to stop?”
No. God, no. I want him to kiss me until I forget why this is complicated. Until I forget that someone could knock on that door any second. Until I forget everything except how his hands feel sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, pulling me closer.
“We’re going to get caught,” I say, even as my fingers find his hair, damp with sweat.
“Don’t care.”
