Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(67)

Sighing, he scrubs his face. “I know I asked you for help tonight, that I very briefly transgressed the ‘strictly coworkers, only professional’ truce we’ve stuck with the past few weeks, but that was for my niece’s sake. You helped, and I appreciate it—” He closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, then says, “And now I need you to go.”

It knocks the air out of me, hearing him say that. I’m the one who’s pushed back, created distance, ordered him to leave, booted his ass out my door. Oliver telling me to go, wishing me gone…fuck, it’s not right.

And that’s exactly what you’re avoiding, the voice inside me warns.

Correct. That’s exactly what I’m preemptively sparing myself—the pain of being unwanted when my allure fades with my career, when I’m nothing but a tired, sore, washed-up former athlete with more aches and pains than the poker guys combined, and his career takes off, drawing him to better clubs, luxurious places, the eager touch and attention given by those who’ll be even more drawn to his looks and charm as he becomes more accomplished, earns more fame.

But, another voice whispers. There’s still a way, isn’t there? To get what you want without risking any of that?

I stare at Oliver as he holds my eyes, a muscle in his jaw flexing, arms crossed. Fuck, he’s aggravating. And gorgeous. And I want him so damn much.

Could I do it? I have before—fucked and kept my feelings squarely out of it. With Elliot, I did it for years. When he reacted precisely how I knew he would to the news that I was leaving England, signing with the Galaxy, I felt nothing. Not disappointment, not loss, not surprise. I knew what I was to him—a means to the lifestyle he enjoyed, a famous guy to be seen with, a damn good lay with absolutely no emotional attachments required.

What if Oliver and I could have that, too? A mutually agreed upon “all fucks, no feels” understanding. I have no idea if he’d want that. And yet my desperation tells me I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I don’t at least try to find out.

“It matters,” I croak.

Oliver’s eyes widen. “What?”

I close the distance between us, clasp his face, my thumb sliding along his cheekbone, the very place that fucker kissed him. “I wanted to tear his limbs off when he touched you.”

Oliver’s arms fall to his sides, and now his hands are fists like mine were, like he’s struggling as much as I was a moment ago to keep them to himself. “Why?” he says quietly.

I lean in, our chests brushing, air rushing out of his lungs. “Because I want you like a sickness eating away at me, Oliver, and seeing him…” My jaw clenches. Words are lost.

“I want you, too,” he admits, shutting his eyes, like he can’t look at me and say it. “To the point of distraction. I’m so miserable. But…I told myself I’d never do this again. I can’t.”

I slide my thumb down to his jaw, slip my other hand through his hair, knead his scalp, making his eyes drift open. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes search mine for a long minute. He swallows roughly, his expression guarded. “I told myself I’m not getting involved with anyone I work with. It…blew up in my face badly when I was younger. And this—the team, my focus on the season and on my career—I can’t risk that again. I won’t let feelings complicate or compromise any of it.”

Anger pulses through me as I see the pain he holds in his eyes—pain that he tries to hide. “Fucking Bryce Burrows,” I growl. “That piece of diving shit.”

Oliver’s mouth quirks. “In retrospect, he’s highly underwhelming and definitely wasn’t worth all the angst, but…” He sighs. “That’s not how I felt back then. I’m not the most rational person when I fall for someone. And I fell for him. Hard.”

Ugly, potent jealousy sours my stomach.

“I want nothing more than to give in to this,” he says quietly. “And I’m having a very hard time dealing with how frustrated I am denying it. But you could be very, very bad news for me, Gavin Hayes. And I didn’t come this far to let another person blow up everything I’ve worked for.”

I sift through what he’s said, hunger and need making me lean into his touch, feast on the way his pupils dilate, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, like mine. “It doesn’t have to blow up,” I tell him, a plan formulating in my head.

He laughs emptily. “It doesn’t, but it likely will, and then I will be screwed.”

I shake my head, sliding my hands down, rounding his shoulders, holding him tight. “Just fucks. No feels.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“We’re both losing our minds not acting on this.” I nudge my hips against his, making us both suck in a breath. Oliver’s grip tightens on my pockets, holding me there when I try to pull away because it feels so good I can barely form sentences while we’re touching like this. “If we scratch the itch, keep it strictly physical, feelings out of it, then you risk none of that.”

He stares at me, breathing unevenly. “You’d want that?”

A groan rolls out of me. “Fuck yes.” I nudge my hips against his, showing him exactly how much I want.

“You just…” He shakes his head. “The past few weeks, I’d swear you couldn’t care less.”