Page 19 of Make Me Yours (Chicago Railers Hockey #1)

I falter at the base of his spine, unsure if I should continue.

Before I can make a conscious decision, the towel dips until I’m swiping over the round firmness of the taut muscles.

It’s gradually that I slide the material back and forth until not a drop of water lingers.

Heat flares in my core, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to stymie the need crashing through me.

Even though I shouldn’t do it, I lower myself to the floor and drag the towel over his thighs.

They’re thick and strong from being on the ice six days a week during the season.

I sweep over his calves and feet, which are firmly planted on the gray bath mat.

My belly flutters with nerves at the thought of shifting to his front.

You’re being ridiculous, Lilah.

This is Steele .

He’s hurt and needs your help.

The last thing I want is for him to bend over, get dizzy, and fall.

I keep that thought firmly in mind as I rise to my feet and circle around him until I’m facing the wall of his chest. My breath grows shallow and uneven, betraying the storm brewing inside me.

Even though I refuse to meet his eyes, I’m acutely aware of his heated gaze tracking my every movement.

My hands tremble as I sweep wide strokes of the towel over his perfectly defined pecs, captivated by the strength beneath my fingertips.

All it would take is dropping the towel, and I could feel him directly against my skin.

The fresh, clean scent of soap clings to him, surrounding me in a dizzying haze and igniting a longing I hadn’t known lay dormant beneath the surface of our friendship. I find myself swaying toward him before pulling back and forcing myself to regain control.

“Are you okay?” His hands flex and tighten at his sides, as if he wants to reach out and take hold of me.

Unable to meet his gaze, I keep my eyes focused on his pecs. “Yup, almost done.”

A wave of heat crashes over me as I slide the material over one nipple and then the other until both are stiff. When I make one final pass across the sensitive peaks, he lets out a low hiss.

The sound has another burst of need exploding in my core.

I move the towel over his rib cage, tracing the deep grooves of his ripped abdominals.

Every ridge is sharply defined, his body carved from discipline and determination.

The towel glides lower, and I falter for half a second when I reach the sharp cut of his V-line—a path that arrows straight down to the coarse, dark hair at his groin.

A flutter of nerves takes root in my belly, blooming into something deeper, more dangerous, as my gaze dips lower. He’s thick and swollen, his arousal impossible to ignore. Heat pulses through me, a molten ache that settles low in my abdomen as my thighs press together.

My fingers twitch with the need to touch him, but I settle for a few brisk pats, clinging to what little restraint I have left.

Steele groans, the sound low and guttural, as his hips jerk forward in response.

The movement is raw and instinctive. It only intensifies the ache thundering through me.

I shift lower, forcing myself to focus, pretending my hands aren’t still trembling as I bring the towel to his shins.

The moment I settle in front of him, it hits me like a jolt.

This position puts me eye level with his cock.

My lips part as his thick, glistening length bobs just inches from my face.

A wave of desire crashes over me. It’s both fierce and consuming. I want to taste him. To feel the weight of him on my tongue. Does he taste as clean and fresh as he smells? The question strikes like lightning and lingers, sparking need in every cell of my body.

I take a shaky inhale and tilt my head back, unable to resist seeking out his gaze. When our eyes meet, a tingling sensation skitters along my skin.

Desire flares in his expression, hot and hungry, before it slams into me with the force of an avalanche. No man has ever looked at me the way Steele does now. As if I’m everything he’s ever wanted.

One large hand lifts to cup my cheek with a tenderness that unravels something deep inside me. His thumb strums lightly over my parted lips, and it’s that small, affectionate touch that undoes me. He groans again, and it vibrates through me like a caress.

Our eyes stay locked as the rest of the world fades.

“Lilah…”

I blink as shock spirals through me .

Am I really crouched before him?

“I-I think you’re dry,” I stammer.

His hand falls away as I scramble to my feet, unsure where to look or what to do.

“Want to give me the towel?”

“Oh. Of course.” I thrust it out to him.

He takes it from my hand before securing it around his waist.

“Look at me, Lilah,” he murmurs, the words coming out rough and strained.

It’s so tempting to bolt. Instead, I force my gaze to his.

We stand still, towels clinging to damp skin, tension thick and electric like the air before a storm.

I don’t know who moves first.

Maybe we both do.

Maybe neither of us do.

But suddenly, his forehead is brushing against mine, his breath fanning across my parted lips.

“Steele,” I whisper, barely able to get his name out.

His fingers find my waist before flexing around it.

With a sharp exhale, he steps back. His jaw is tight and his expression is unreadable as he plucks another towel from the rack and dries his hair. “Would you grab me a pair of boxers and then help me to bed?”

My fingers twitch at my sides as I nod and then spin toward the door, escaping to the safety of his bedroom where I can finally clear my head.

The longing I feel for him is frightening. I’ve never felt this kind of need thrum through me.

Certainly never for Devon.

Or any of the other boyfriends I’ve had.

I pull open the dresser drawer and grab the first pair of boxers my fingers come in contact with. When I step back into the bathroom, Steele is slouched against the marble counter, eyelids half-closed, swaying slightly, like he’s seconds away from face-planting.

When he reaches out to take the underwear, I gently brush his hand aside.

“Let me,” I murmur. “It’ll be quicker, then you can get to bed. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

A tired half-smile tugs at his lips. “Funny, because that’s exactly how I feel. Like I got hit by a truck.”

“You pretty much did,” I say, crouching in front of him. “And that truck’s name was Henrik Sundstrom.”

“Remind me to return the favor next time we play Dallas.”

For a second time, I drop to my knees in front of him, then help as he steps into the boxers.

He lifts one leg, then the other, silent except for the occasional sharp inhale.

I guide the fabric carefully up his legs, over his muscular thighs, until it settles at his hips.

He clutches the towel at his waist, holding it in place while I finish.

Then I rise, wrapping an arm around him. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed.”

With a snort, he leans into me as I guide him into the other room. His steps are heavy, sluggish, but he doesn’t fight me. I pull back the covers and help him slide between the sheets, then tuck the blanket around him.

Waffles hops onto the bed and settles against his side.

I run my fingers gently through his damp hair. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I whisper. “You scared the hell out of me.”

His eyes stay locked on mine. “I’m sorry, Lilah. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

I lean down and brush a kiss across his forehead. The caress lingers before I finally pull away. His fingers find mine, tightening around them, making it impossible to retreat.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

I freeze.

His request is quiet and laced with exhaustion .

I’m torn. With the way I’m feeling, staying feels dangerous.

“Please?” he adds.

And just like that, leaving doesn’t feel like an option.

“I need pajamas,” I say, weak with the fight I’ve already lost.

“Just grab my robe.”

After a moment’s pause, I nod and walk away.

In the bathroom, I drop the towel, peel off my damp underwear and bra, and reach for the oversized plaid robe hanging on the back of the door.

It smells like him. Clean soap, mint shampoo, and something undeniably Steele.

I wrap it around me and tighten the belt at my waist.

When I return to the bedroom, the only light illuminating the space spills in from the hallway. I flick it off, crawl into bed beside him, and settle against the pillow.

Steele shifts toward me until we’re only inches apart. The weight of him beside me settles something deep inside my chest.

“You know I love you, right?” he whispers into the darkness.

My heart skips a beat. “Steele?—”

“I always have.”

I shudder as every wall inside me crumbles. I want to tell him it’s the concussion talking, and that he won’t remember this in the morning.

But I don’t.

Because I know he means it.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

A quiet, contented sigh escapes him, and within seconds, he’s out.

I lie there in the dark and watch him before reaching out and brushing a stray curl from his forehead.

I’ve never cared for anyone the way I do this man.

And I don’t think I ever will again.