Caged (Gold Hockey Book 11) by Elise Faber (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

Dani missed a step, nearly faceplanted on the concrete floor.

Ethan, bless him, didn’t acknowledge the klutziness, other than to steady her again with one of those big hands—which really just made it even harder to focus on her steps and to not just melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Dani?” he said after a few more moments.

His hand was still wrapped around her bicep, and she found that it was hard to concentrate on anything except the contact.

And that was the only reason she could come up with later for why the conversation went as it did.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“What are you doing now?”

“Um?” She nibbled on her bottom lip. “You mean aside from driving home?”

The ghost of a smile. “After you get home,” he said. His thumb was on the inside of her arm, tracing lightly up and down, a coil of heat tightening in her abdomen.

Her mouth open and closed. Open and closed.

And then for some really freaking stupid reason, she blurted, “Bath, wine, cold pizza, and bingeing Bridgerton for about the fiftieth time on Netflix.”

Silence.

His feet slid to a stop, sliding her to a stop.

Lightning in those stormy eyes, that thumb pausing, pressing a little tighter. His lips parted and he was close, closer than she’d realized, his hot breath brushing over the skin on her forehead, her cheek . . . her mouth.

Oh God.

Was he going to kiss her?

She wanted that. She didn’t want that. No, she needed his lips on hers.

A door slammed in the distance and she jumped, skittering back, his hand slipping free. Her heart squeezed, and she could feel her pulse thrumming through her veins, thudding against the delicate skin at the base of her throat.

“What’s Bridgerton?” he asked softly, starting to walk again.

She gaped up at him, frozen in place.

He turned back, lightly snagged her arm again, tugging her forward, and he laughed quietly—a rough chuckle sliding through the air, teasing her skin like velvet and lace running over the surface. That husky laugh joined the imagery of his beard to mentally rub against her thighs.

“What’s Bridgerton?” he asked again.

“A show,” she managed to get out.

“What kind of show?”

The best kind of show—strong heroines, gorgeous, tortured heroes, pretty dresses, gossip, and drama . . . and there was that duke. Yum. Because that duke was just . . . her cheeks went hot. “Um . . .”

He bent, nearly running into her for the third time that evening, then his face softened, his eyes danced. “Ah.”

She swallowed. “Ah, what?”

Ethan straightened, but not before she saw the smile on his lips. “It’s a sexy show.”

Her lips parted, words stoppered up in the back of her throat.

Yes, it was a sexy show, an unapologetic romance that was wonderful to get lost in because was it too much for a woman to want a man to burn for her? No.

But also, probably, at least when it came to her.

Sighing, shoving down that sad thought, she knew she’d take her fictional duke any day of the week.

Ethan bent, his mouth very close to her ear. “Want to have a watch party?”

Her throat seized, and she found herself coughing, choking on her own spit. Ah. That was another reason she didn’t have her fictional duke. Duchesses didn’t go around choking on their own saliva.

Ethan’s hand slipped from her arm, sliding up her shoulder, drifting to her back, the warm expanse of it running up and down her spine.

“I take it,” he said when she’d finally stopped coughing, “that’s a no?”

“Uh-huh,” she wheezed, turning right at the intersection in the hall and breathing a little easier when she saw the exit to the arena was just ahead. Just a few more steps and she could make her escape from this conversation in which she kept embarrassing herself, get back to her condo, and to her bath, cold pizza, and bottle of wine.

Lucky for her, she didn’t have to be on the team’s diet plan.

She could self-medicate and ply herself with all the carbs she wanted.

So take that, sexy hockey players with the amazing bodies. She might not have a six-pack—ha!—but at least she could eat her delicious crust topped with cheese and sauce and all sorts of other yumminess.

“Dani?”

She jumped, her brain having been locked on the leftovers of her Hawaiian pizza that was currently sitting on the top shelf of her fridge. She could almost taste it—the creamy cheese, the sweet of the pineapple, the saltiness of the ham—and . . . that was not pertinent to this conversation.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Are you scared of me?”

The grizzly bear of a man was touching her, walking close to her, his scent surrounding her, his body towering over hers by a good six inches. He was stronger and outweighed her, and he was certainly way more gorgeous than her—and that wasn’t on a hate-herself-vein. That was just pure irrefutable fact. Ethan’s cheekbones were sharp, his eyes unique and intoxicating, his lips kissable, and his body . . . well, that was also kissable.

Very, very kissable.

He made her want to do things that weren’t smart.

Very, very not smart.

So yeah, he scared her. He fucking terrified her.

A finger brushing along the tip of her nose.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You’re scared of me.”

“I—”

But what could she do? Argue and deny it? She wasn’t a good liar, and she had the feeling that Ethan would see through her anyway.

“Here,” he said, in such a gentle way that she immediately felt her spine bristle.

Shy, not fragile.

Quiet, not stupid.

Taciturn, not a bitch.

And what was the point in going down that road again, either in her mind or in this conversation? He wouldn’t understand. No one ever did, and it wasn’t like she was willing to blab her sad sob story out there.

Or that she had a worse sad sob story than anyone else.

She’d been quiet, not one of the cool, outgoing, beautiful or funny kids. So, she’d gotten her turn as fodder for bullies. It had