Page 94 of Offside Angle

Matteo pulls back with an offended look. “No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

His mouth falls into an actual pout, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at him. Thirty years old, professional hockey player, currently pouting because I accused him of rehearsing his flirting.

Adorable.

“Stop ruining it,” he mutters.

“I’m enjoying it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is for me.”

Matteo narrows his eyes, then takes my glass out of my hand and sets it on the table like he’s decided it’s interfering with something. “Let’s get out of here.”

I study him properly this time. He’s definitely been drinking, but he’s coherent, focused, and looking at me with an intent that has very little to do with the game now.

“You sure?” I ask. “You seem to be having fun.”

Matteo’s mouth curves. Instead of answering, he slides his hand onto my thigh beneath the table.

My attention drops to his fingers for half a second before returning to his face.

Oh, he is getting bold.

His hand travels higher while he leans close enough that his lips brush the edge of my ear. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I wanna have fun with you.”

Heat slides through me at the words, slow and immediate, and for once I don’t tease him right away. I let him sit there with his hand on me and that hungry look in his eyes while the club keeps moving around us—music pounding, his teammates yelling over each other, glasses knocking against tables somewhere behind us.

None of it has much of my attention anymore.

I set my drink down and turn toward him until there’s barely any space left between our mouths. “Careful what you ask for, cariño,” I murmur, turning my head just enough that our mouths are almost brushing. “You might actually get it.”

Matteo’s fingers flex against my thigh, and the look he gives me is pure want mixed with that leftover adrenaline from the game.

I stand up and take his hand, guiding him through the crowd and out of the club before either of us can second-guess it. The night air feels almost cold after the heat inside, and Matteo takes one deep breath before patting down his pockets with increasing confusion.

“Where the hell is my phone?” he mutters. “We need a cab.”

I reach into my own pocket and fish it out, holding it up between us. “You gave it to me earlier, cariño.”

He blinks at me, then takes it. I don’t wait for him to figure out how to call a car. I just step to the curb and whistle sharply. A taxi pulls up almost immediately. Matteo stares at me , baffled.

“Did you just… savage…” he snorts, half-impressed, half-amused.

The door has barely closed before he shifts toward me again.

Apparently leaving the club did absolutely nothing to improve his restraint.

His hand lands back on my thigh while the city moves past the windows, fingers tracing absent patterns through my jeans as he leans close enough to keep his comments between us. He’s softer about it now, but no less obvious—little remarks against my ear, another glance at my mouth, his knee pressed firmly against mine like he has no intention of giving me space.

I enjoy it for another minute before catching his wrist. “How drunk are you, cariño?”