Page 11 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Nix makes a sound like he’s choking. “Look at the time.” He scoots out of the other side of the booth. “I should get my name on the karaoke list before it fills up. Don’t want to deprive the people of my silky-smooth singing voice.”

Blue follows. “And I should go pack.”

We all glance his way.

“For Nepal,” he says simply. “Tomorrow.”

“Nepal?” Makena cocks her head to one side. “Like…the country?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, we do have ten days off before summer conditioning starts,” I say. “Be safe out there, big guy. Don’t get too enlightened and join a monastery or whatever. We need you on the ice.”

Blue nods once, then he’s gone—moving through the crowd like a glacier through the ocean: big on top, but even bigger, deeper under the surface.

“Later, meat stick weirdos,” Nix says, snagging his stank drink. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

And then we’re alone. In our cozy corner booth. In the bar where we first kissed. Breathing fast from a heated meat stick battle, with alcohol in our systems, unspoken feelings thick in the air, and the clock well past five.

“Can’t do…what was that again?” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, her hand disappears under the table, and suddenly there’s warmth on my thigh. Just her palm, resting there through my shorts.

Not moving. Just…there.

My brain short-circuits for a second before I mirror her, sliding my hand under the table to find her leg. The denim of her jeans is soft under my palm, worn in all the right places. I squeeze gently, and she squeezes back.

It’s the weirdest, hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

We sit there, staring at each other, not speaking, just…touching. Her fingers start moving, tracing little patterns on my thigh. I respond by dragging my thumb along the inseam of her jeans—slow and deliberate. Her breath catches, and her hand slides higher.

This is insane. We’re in public. In a bar where we’ve already gotten into trouble for making out in public once before, playing a silent, under-the-table game of chicken while Cobb’s husband is literally three feet away, delivering a tray of Platypus Surprises.

But I can’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Her fingertips are curling into the muscle of my thigh now, kneading gently, and I’m getting hard. So fucking hard, just from her hand on my leg through a layer of fabric like a Victorian virgin touched for the very first time.

“Next up, Melody Jakes,” the karaoke host’s voice cuts through the air, making us both suck in a breath.

But we don’t move our hands or look toward the stage.

We only have eyes for each other right now.

“She picked out a real treat for y’all tonight.

Enjoy and don’t forget to leave your change in the donation boxes by the bar on your way out.

We’re drinking for New Orleans tonight, darlins. Let’s show our city how much we care!”

Amidst cheers from the crowd, a woman takes the stage. When she opens her mouth, actual music comes out. This isn’t the usual karaoke massacre. This girl can sing . Her voice is smooth as whiskey, turning Prince’s slightly pervy “When Doves Cry” into something that makes my chest tight.

Makena’s hand slides higher.

My fingers dig into her thigh.

We’re both breathing too fast, eyes locked, as Melody croons about touching trembling stomachs and being left alone in a cold, cruel world, and fuck…

This shouldn’t be so hot—we’re in a dive bar that smells like sour beer and the unfortunate number of Pepé Le Pew Pews they’ve sold tonight—but all I can focus on is the heat in Makena’s eyes and the way her fingers are now dangerously close to where I’m straining against my zipper.

The blood is rushing south so fast I’m getting lightheaded. My cock is practically begging for attention, and her pinky finger is right there, just an inch away from brushing against it. I slide my hand up to her inner thigh, and she parts her legs just slightly, just enough to be an invitation.

Her pupils are blown wide, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and all I want to do is lean in and?—

“I have to pee,” she blurts out.

I blink, hand going still mere centimeters from her clit. “Pee?”

She scoots across the vinyl, breath still coming fast. “Yes. Pee. Right now. Immediately. You know I have a very small bladder.”

“I do know that,” I say, weirdly proud of that fact.

After barely a week, I know that she can’t make it more than three hours without needing to find a bathroom, wakes at the crack of dawn no matter how late she goes to bed, and always checks to make sure her dining partner has everything they need for a luxurious meal before attending to her own plate.

She loves fresh dill, hates cantaloupe with a passion I reserve for people who slap puppies, and has very strong opinions about free-range chicken.

Namely, that they should always be free range, and that chickens have a God-given right to live wild and happy before they become food.

I know all these things, but I can’t wait to learn more, to memorize this woman like the lyrics of my favorite song.

Which might be “When Doves Cry” now. I can’t believe I never realized how chock full of longing and sex this song was before.

“So yeah, I’m going to do that.” She stands beside our booth for a second, shifting from one foot to the other, looking everywhere but at me. Then suddenly, she adds in a rush, “But if someone were to knock on the door to the family bathroom in like…two minutes, I would let him in.”

My pulse spikes. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” She finally meets my gaze, the hunger in hers making my mouth go dry. “Yes, I would. I would let him in and lock the door behind him. Two minutes, Parker, okay? Exactly two.”

Before I can respond, she’s gone, weaving through the crowd like her ass is on fire.

I sit there, stunned—my thigh still warm from her touch, my cock still hard, my blood thundering in my veins.

She wants me to follow her to the family bathroom.

The only bathroom with a lock at The Brass Monkey.

The bathroom that’s always empty because who the fuck brings their family to a dive bar in Metairie?

Two minutes, and I’m probably already down to a hundred seconds or less…

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi, I silently count, anticipation spiking hard enough to make my hands shake as I wipe them on my shorts.

This is probably a terrible idea. We’ve been drinking, and we’re roommates, and we have rules. I’m supposed to be a good guy who respects boundaries and doesn’t follow my drunk roommate into a bathroom for what is clearly not a book club meeting.

Twenty Mississippi. Twenty-one Mississippi.

But fuck, she wants this. She said she couldn’t do “this” anymore. That clearly infers that “this” is an issue that’s been bothering her for much longer than one evening. “This” was bothering her when she was sober. She’s just brave enough to say something about it now that she’s had a few.

Besides, she looked at me like she wanted to eat me alive, and I’m dying to be the main course, side dish, and fucking dessert.

Forty-five Mississippi. Forty-six Mississippi.

My cock is so hard it’s punching through my zipper.

Every time I shift, the canvas of my shorts rubs against it in the most exquisitely torturous way.

This is what I get for not jerking off this morning.

I thought I was being noble, trying to break the cycle of spanking it to thoughts of Makena’s little lace panties and fine ass in yoga pants and how sexy she is when she cooks.

Turns out I was just setting myself up for an embarrassing as hell walk across a crowded bar. But I have my raincoat. I can tie it around my waist before I grab my crutches, assuming I’m not able to get a fucking grip on the erection situation in the next minute.

Seventy-three Mississippi. Seventy-four Mississippi.

Still, this isn’t without risk…

What if this ruins everything? What if we start to hook up and she runs away again? But this time she has nowhere to run to except home to my house, so things get very fucking awkward, very fucking quick?

Or worse, what if she leaves?

What if she takes Elly up on that offer to stay at her and Grammercy’s empty place until they get back from their honeymoon (and afterwards, if she needs it)?

What if a drunken night of breaking the rules is all it takes to make it abundantly clear to Makena that she actually does have other places to go?

And then she goes to one of them, and I never see her again?

Ninety-six Mississippi. Ninety-seven Mississippi.

No. Stop. My dick is a champion, who is going to take my girl to previously unexperienced heights of pleasure.

My dick, when properly motivated, has sorcerer-like powers.

My dick is a marvel of genetic engineering.

My dick has won major awards.

Okay, not really, but I’ve had zero complaints about it, and even Kayley, my ex with the giant boobs who thought I was gross for wanting to talk about my feelings, was sad when this dick was in her rearview.

She slid into my DMs for months after, begging for a good “friends with bennies” fucking, until I finally blocked her.

Because my dick also has a healthy level of self-respect.

And he really liked hearing Makena say he was precious…

Or that I was precious.

Same difference. My dick and I are literally inseparable.

One hundred Mississippi. One hundred one Mississippi.

It’s time, and the raincoat isn’t needed.

I’ve regained control—a thing that will evaporate as soon as I’m within six feet of Makena again. But that’s just fucking fine.

I was invited to join her in the family bathroom.

My knee throbs a little as I stand and fetch my crutches, reminding me that I’m technically injured. But that’s not about to stop me. I can still give Makena everything she wants, everything she needs.

And I’m going to go do just that.

One hundred twenty Mississippi.

Right now.

I launch into motion, weaving through the crowd, moving faster on my crutches than I have all week. I barrel past the stage where Melody is finishing her stunning tribute to Prince, past the end of the line for the mechanical bull, and down a hallway that definitely violates several health codes.

The family bathroom door at the end is a work of art.

And by art, I mean someone’s fever dream fingerpainting after doing too much peyote. There’s a family of trippy-looking possums painted on it, but one of them has human teeth and another might be holding a knife.

I knock once, softly.

The door flies open instantly. A second later, Makena’s hand shoots out, grabbing my shirt and yanking me inside with the strength of a woman who needs a good dicking down as desperately as I need to give it to her.

I have a beat to take in that this bathroom is A LOT—a changing table sits beneath a shrine to taxidermy squirrels, the walls are covered with haunted forest wallpaper that gives me flashbacks to being afraid of the Snow White cartoon as a kid, and the air smells weirdly of cotton candy mixed in with the bleach.

But I don’t have time to process more than that before Makena slams the door behind us, clicks the lock, and pushes me against the wall.

Then she’s kissing me.

And everything else—the squirrels, the rules, the inexplicable smell of cotton candy—disappears.