“I’m going to run you a hot bath and make us breakfast. We can relax for a while, and then?—”
“Then back to bed?”
I reach down to feel the length of his cock, already half-hard at the thought of more sex, and marvel all over again at how long and thick it is, hot to the touch.
“You’re trying to kill me.” He leans in and plants a kiss on my neck, then grinds his fully hard cock against my hip. “But I can’t think of a better way to go.”
Chapter 28
Heather
True to his word, Grant runs me a bath and then disappears to make breakfast. When I step out of the bathroom feeling somewhat more human, although still deliciously sore, I find one of his practice jerseys laid out on the bed.
The fabric is worn and soft from all the wear and tear it’s seen, but it feels like a warm hug when I slip it on. Nevermind that the hem falls to mid-thigh like a dress, and the sleeves hang past my fingertips. It was still a thoughtful gesture, and it saves me from having to hunt around for my scattered clothes or dig in the closet for something else to wear.
I roll up the sleeves several times to free my hands, then pad barefoot down the stairs. Grant is standing at the kitchen island with his back to me. He’s thrown on a pair of gray sweatpants, low-slung and obscenely attractive, but nothing else. I take a moment to appreciate the view, all those muscles and tattoos on full display as he moves around the kitchen with surprising ease.
He must sense me watching because he turns around, and the look on his face when he sees me makes my stomach do a little flip.
“Fuck,” he says softly, his eyes darkening as they travel down my body and back up again. “You look incredible in my jersey.”
I look down at myself and give a little twirl. “I look like a kid playing dress-up.”
“You look like you’re mine.” His voice drops lower, more possessive. “And I love it.”
I have to resist the urge to run across the kitchen and jump into his arms. But if I’m being honest, I’m too damn sore and hungry to make any sudden moves. Instead, I slide onto one of the barstools and watch as he goes back to whatever he’s making.
“Are eggs okay?” He cracks a few into a bowl. “I was going to make sandwiches since it’s close enough to lunchtime, but I figured we needed something more substantial.”
“Eggs are perfect.” I lean into the bar and prop my chin in my hand, content to watch him cook. “I can’t remember the last time someone made breakfast for me.”
He reaches for the whisk without looking back. “You’re gonna have to get used to it.”
The casual certainty in his voice makes me smile. I’ve been on my own for long enough to know that I don’t need to be pampered or spoiled. I don’t need someone to run my bath and make me breakfast. But damn, it feels nice.
Five minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me—perfectly scrambled eggs with cheese, just the way I like them.
“How did you know I like my eggs like this?”
He tosses me a half-grin and a noncommittal shrug as he sits down next to me with his own plate. “I’ve learned all sorts of things you like this weekend.”
He’s not wrong. He’s quickly becoming a pro at figuring out just what I need, just when I need it. Whether it’s in bed or in the kitchen or on the side of the road. He’s starting to anticipate my needs better than I do some days.
The crazy thing is, it doesn’t bother me like it probably should. Or like it would have a few years ago, when I still had a lot of growing and healing to do.
We eat for a while in comfortable silence, and I’m struck by how natural and easy this feels.
“Can I tell you something?” He sets his fork down between bites and turns to look at me.
“Of course. Anything.”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “I haven’t gone this long without thinking about hockey in years. Maybe ever.”
I can’t tell by his tone whether that’s a good or bad thing, but I know how much hockey means to him. If he’s spending most of his time thinking about something else, it’s pretty damn serious.
Still, I want to hear it from his mouth.
“What do you mean?”
