She hums, the sound going straight to my dick. “That’s a dangerous promise.”
Chuckling, I press a kiss to the top of her head. Then I ease her back onto the pillows and head for the door. With a centering breath, I close it, keeping my back turned for an extra second. Tonight has been fucking strange. Ten minutes ago, another woman was grinding on top of Savannah in a way that made me pretty confident an orgy was about to break out in my basement. Now I’m toeing off my shoes and climbing into my bed, fully dressed, my only hope for the night that she lets me keep her in my arms.
The fuck is going on with me?
When I’m settled beside her, my back against the leather headboard, she nuzzles into my chest.
I let out a long exhale, and the heavy weight of anxiety I always carry leaves my body along with my breath.
She clutches my shirt, her own breathing steady. The room is nearly silent. The only sound the faint noises from the party. It should be awkward. I only met her an hour ago. And yet…it’s not.
In fact, the longer we sit, the more I relax. When she finally tilts her head up and assesses me, I’m completely at ease, until she utters four simple words: “Do you want kids?”
NINE
SAVANNAH
My heart poundsas I try to maintain a straight face.
How in the fuck does Sutton ask these things and not feel completely exposed?
I shouldn’t care what this man thinks. I shouldn’t care what his answer is. I’m doing this for the column. It’s an experiment. And I’m doing it to help my friend understand what not to do.
But the thing is, when I’m uttering words that are guaranteed to make a man walk away, I wish I wasn’t uttering them to a man I think I’d like to stay.
Then again, in this moment, I get how Sutton feels. Vulnerable and hopeful. God, it’s awful. Why would anyone willingly put themselves in this position?
Downstairs, dressed up, channeling the sexy vixen who owned the attention of everyone in that room. That is my scene.
Teasing a man by flirting with another woman? Totally my comfort level.
Telling a man I’ve never been loved? That was my first mistake. The first sign that I should have bolted. Or dragged one of the players into a closet instead.
I should be fucking a guy in some room in this house, preparing to walk away, knowing I have a story for tomorrow. The perfect title too.First mistake: Don’t forget to Play Hard to Get. OrDon’t Fall for the Guy You Fuck on the First Night.
The story could write itself. We all know that rule.
Asking a guy I actually might like if he wants to have kids while half naked and lying in bed with him? Yeah, no, this is new territory for me.
The strangest thing is that as my stomach flips in anticipation, as I wait for his freaked-out response, I can’t help but wonder what my own answer would be. Do I want kids?
Two hours ago, I would have said that I’ve never considered it. It wasn’t an absolutely not. I just never put real thought into it.
Kids need stability. A parent who has their shit together. A partner, maybe; a career, definitely.
A woman who’ll lose her job and her apartment if she doesn’t do something drastic like ask the hottest guy ever if he wants to have kids is not the kind of person who is ready for that kind of responsibility.
“Do I want kids?” Camden echoes, his expression unreadable.
I nod, barely keeping that straight face in place.
He runs his hand through his short hair, probably trying to figure out how the fuck to get me out of his bed and back down to the party. “Um.” He shrugs. “I used to.”
“What?” It’s the only word my scrambled brain can come up with.
His blue eyes cut to mine and soften as he takes me in. “I always figured I’d play in the NHL, meet a girl like my friends did, and eventually retire and start a family. I’d have a whole other life waiting for me after hockey.”
I’d like to say it’s the journalist in me that continues to prod, but the curiosity is genuine. “But that didn’t happen?”
