We don’t rush, knowing we have the rest of the day to be together if we need it. He handles me like I’m something precious with longing in his fingertips.
He undresses me slowly, peeling away each layer, like he’s unwrapping a gift. His mouth follows his hands, pressing warm kisses to every inch of skin he exposes. My collarbone. The curve of my ribs. The dip of my waist. He takes his time, like the world outside doesn’t exist. My fingers trail through his hair while he maps my body with his lips.
When he settles between my thighs, he doesn’t push inside. He memorizes me, brushing the hair from my face. His eyes trace every feature, like he’s cataloging me for a painting of his own. No one has ever looked at me the way he always has. Like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked.
“I’m so fucking in love with you.” He slides inside me as the words leave his mouth, and I gasp at the fullness, at the way my body opens for him like it was made to.
Hearing him say that and feeling him so deep inside me—it’s almost too much. He draws out every stroke, and I wrap my legs around him to have him even deeper. I want to chase the pleasure as heat builds low in my belly. He shifts his angle, and my breath catches. I feel the edge faster than I expected.
He watches my lips part, my eyes flutter closed, as the orgasm builds. When I fall apart in his arms, he rocks into me through every second. I clench around him as waves roll through me. Somewhere in the middle, I whisper his name like it’s a prayer, like he’s saving me. He draws out every aftershock until I’m trembling beneath him.
Then he buries his face in my neck and lets go. I feel him pulse inside me, feel his body shudder. The raw sound that releases from him is almost broken, desperate, and that nearly undoes me all over again.
We stay like that, our hearts pounding in the same rhythm. When he lifts his head, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I brush the hair off his forehead and pull him down for a kiss that tastes like surrender.
He rolls onto his back and takes me with him so I’m draped across his chest. I give myself permission to sink into him. In that moment, I think about how I could stay in this bed with him forever.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my spine, and I close my eyes. The afternoon light washes over us in gold. I smile because this might be one of the best days of my life.
We lie there as the light fades from gold to gray.
The paintings are still scattered across my floor. Game night with the Cobras is on the horizon. Damien is still out there, running his mouth. And if my dad finds out, all respect will be lost. There is a lot on the line, and this is far from easy.
But as he holds me, none of it matters.
Just this. Only us.
28
PATTERSON
Her shower has seventeen bottles in it, and I don’t understand how one person needs this many products.
“This one’s for my hair.” She catches me staring at the lineup while water runs down her back. “That’s for my face. This one’s body wash. Exfoliating and?—”
“That’s four. What about the other thirteen?”
She flicks water at me. “We call that self-care.”
“Excuse me, ma’am. I have no room,” I say, threading my fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp.
“Yes,” she says, but she’s laughing when she says it. “Do more of that.”
She pulls me under the spray with her, and I go willingly because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
This is what I’ve always wanted, but she did too. Before the walls fell, she told me that she wanted slow mornings, shared showers, and someone who stayed. I filed it away because I want to make her happy.
Without me asking, she tips her head back. My fingers work through her hair, scratching gently against her scalp, and she makes this sound that I want to hear for the rest of my life.
“If hockey doesn’t work out for you,” she murmurs, “you could charge for this.”
“Oh, babe, if hockey doesn’t work out, I’ll become your shadow, but we know that won’t be a problem. I’m the best in the league.”
“And so damn humble about it too.”
I smirk as I rinse the soap from her hair, and she turns to face me, water streaming down her shoulders. It catches on her collarbone, sliding between her perfect breasts. Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like the world around us disappears. This version of Kendall, the one without armor, feels like a gift I don’t deserve. But somehow, I have.
“Jamie’s flying in this morning,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts.
