Page 11 of Make Me Yours (Chicago Railers Hockey #1)

LILAH

O kay, so maybe Steele wasn’t lying when he said he needed help managing his schedule. One thing’s for sure, his itinerary is a disaster.

I sit cross-legged on the couch, tablet propped against my knee, trying to make sense of the never-ending stream of commitments. There are PR events, sponsor obligations, and media appearances. Not to mention practices, games, and charity functions.

Does this man ever get a break?

A tiny meow pierces the air, followed by the gentle pitter-patter of paws across the hardwood. Waffles hops up onto the couch beside me, tail flicking before plopping herself down on the tablet. She’s only been here for a few hours but already, she’s made herself at home.

“Waffles.” I sigh, nudging her gently. “I love you. Unfortunately, your fuzzy little butt is not compatible with a touchscreen.”

She lets out a purr and tucks herself in more snugly, completely unfazed. I slide the tablet out from under her belly and glance back down at the schedule.

Wait a minute …

“A photo shoot?” I blink. “Steele has a photo shoot tomorrow morning?”

How didn’t we talk about this?

He disappeared about fifteen minutes ago to take a shower before going to bed.

Judging from this calendar, I can understand why he felt the need to sack out so early.

I lean against the cushion and stare at the ceiling for a second, wondering how long he’s been handling all this by himself. Beside me, Waffles stretches and lets out the tiniest squeaky yawn before curling back into a little ball of fuzz.

“Your dad’s gonna run himself into the ground if he’s not careful,” I murmur. “Good thing he’s got us now, huh?”

She blinks up at me like she couldn’t agree more.

“All right, you stay here and hold down the fort. I’ll be right back.”

When she doesn’t object, I take that as my cue to move forward with the plan.

With one final look at Waffles stretched out on the couch, I head down the hallway to where the bedrooms are located. My bare feet are silent against the wood floor.

I find Steele’s bedroom door cracked open, and rap my knuckles against the wood.

“Steele? Are you still awake? I have a few questions about the schedule tomorrow.”

I wait a beat, then two.

For a handful of seconds, I consider turning around and heading back to the living room.

But the need for answers regarding his itinerary wins out, and I carefully push open the door before peeking inside.

The room is shadowy, the only light coming from the bathroom as steam drifts from the doorway.

As I take a few steps toward it, I spot a pile of discarded clothing on the floor. It’s the same hoodie and sweatpants he wore at dinner. Not to mention a pair of gray boxers.

Oh.

Oh.

The small pile of dirty laundry is my signal to turn around and get the hell out of here.

It’s not like we can’t discuss the photo shoot in the morning.

The water shuts off until it’s nothing more than drips hitting the tile.

I take a hasty step in retreat as Steele moves into view. The sight that fills the space is all it takes for air to clog my lungs.

The man is dripping wet.

And naked.

So very naked.

The first thing I notice is that there isn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’s all chiseled strength and toned musculature. Every inch is sculpted like a marble statue. His damp hair clings to his forehead as water trails down his pecs and over well-defined abs.

We’ve been friends for a decade, and I’ve seen Steele without a shirt hundreds of times before at the lake or pool.

But I’ve never caught sight of him like this .

My greedy gaze slides over his broad shoulders. The sinewy muscles bunch and flex as he dries himself with unhurried strokes. I’m mesmerized by the movement as my attention slips to his tapered waist when he twists around to give me an unobstructed view of his backside.

It’s official. Steele is a perfect specimen of a man.

Instead of backing away, my gaze dips lower.

Because how can I not look at his ass?

It’s so freaking perfect.

A shiver works through me, and I stare so hard, there’s no way that every nuance of his backside won’t be imprinted upon my memory for the rest of my life .

It’s just so muscular.

The urge to reach out and stroke my hands over him is so damn strong. I haven’t felt this punch of arousal in…

Maybe never.

My thighs unconsciously clench, and I’m struck with the realization that my panties are soaked.

The last thing I should be doing is standing here and drooling over him.

I’m probably breaking a dozen unspoken friend rules.

His biceps bulge and flex as he dries his hair, turning just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his front. Even though I tell myself not to look, my gaze zeroes in on the thick length of his cock nestled against dark hair. He might not be hard, but he’s still impossibly big.

Hung.

Oh my God, did I just think that ?

My brain chooses that moment to malfunction.

Maybe it’s because I can’t seem to rip my gaze away even as I silently scream at myself to do it. Or maybe it’s because I’m rooted to the spot, drinking him in like I’ve been starved for the sight of him.

That’s the exact moment Steele meets my gaze in the mirror, and my stomach drops. Heat rushes through me. His expression shifts, and surprise gives way to something darker.

Hungrier.

My face flames so hot, it feels like it’s on fire.

It takes effort to jumpstart my brain into action as I stumble back a step. “Oh. Uh. I?—”

In one swift movement, Steele fastens the towel around his waist. “Is there something you needed, Lilah?”

How he manages to sound so casual, as if me standing here gawking at him is nothing out of the ordinary, I have no idea. But I still catch the way his eyes burn with an intensity I’ve never seen in them before .

My mouth opens and then closes like I’m a fish gasping for its last dying breath.

“I… uh… your schedule,” I finally blurt, waving the tablet like it has the power to save me from the humiliating moment playing out between us.

“What about it?” He steps toward me, closing the distance with easy, deliberate strides.

My brain short-circuits.

It’s completely blank.

And it doesn’t help that Steele smells like fresh soap and skin, still damp from the shower, completely unbothered by the fact I just walked in on him.

I need to retreat.

Now.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “I’ll, uh… just email my questions.”

With that, I spin and nearly trip over his gym bag before bolting for the door.

“Lilah,” he calls after me.

I wave a frantic hand without looking back. “No worries! We can talk about it tomorrow!”

I barely make it to the living room before scooping up Waffles and hauling ass into my room. Once there, I deposit the kitten on my bed.

She doesn’t look pleased by the disruption.

But it’s hard to focus on that when my entire body feels overheated.

I’m not just burning up. I’m being burned alive from the inside out.

Holy hell, what was that?

Why did he look at me like that?

Then again, why did I look at him like that?

With a groan, I realize I’m the one who now needs a shower.

Preferably a cold one.