I didn’t remove her. Tonight, I ensured I’ll never fucking be free of her.
And the worst part is, I don’t think I want to be.
16
KENDALL
The door clicks shut behind him, and I don’t move.
I’m lying in the wreckage of my sheets, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe because my body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Every muscle is loose and trembling, and between my legs, I’m swollen and still pulsing with aftershocks from where he was. The sheets beneath me are soaked, and I should probably be embarrassed, but I can’t feel anything except the ghost of his hands on my hips and his voice in my ear, telling me I belonged to him.
Patterson fucked me senseless, which had never happened to me before. I’m out of my body, existing on a different planet.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel him inside me again.
By the time morning light floods my bedroom, I’ve accepted something I don’t want to admit.
Last night, Patterson didn’t just fuck me. Heruinedme for any other man. No one will ever live up to the queen treatment he delivered.
I want him again, but this time, he has to ask me.
The week crawls by in a haze of paint and anticipation, and I finish five more portraits without really remembering paintingthem. Patterson and I don’t text, and we don’t talk. When we pass each other at the facility, we look straight through each other like we’re ghosts. Like he wasn’t buried deep inside me five days ago, making me scream his name as I crumbled around him. A few times, I catch him staring at me in the weight room. The look in his eyes makes me leave before I do something stupid and pull him back into the storage closet with me.
On Thursday night, when I’m packing my bag, I see the vibrator in my nightstand drawer. I bought it two years ago and barely used it because it never quite did what I needed it to do. I hesitate for a moment before shoving it into my bag beneath my camera equipment because maybe Patterson can show me a thing or two.
I also pack the champagne silk shirt, the one that matches the robe I was wearing when Patterson came over. I want him to see it and remember exactly what I looked like before he destroyed me.
Friday morning comes, and I board the private charter, trying to look like a professional photographer and not a woman who’s been counting down the hours until she can get Patterson Cross alone again. Thankfully, I’m now completely caught up with my paintings.
Patterson boards last and doesn’t look at me once during the flight. I spend the hour hyperaware of his presence three rows ahead while I track every movement of his in my peripheral vision.
We land, and buses take us to the hotel. It’s a luxury hotel downtown, called the W. It’s expensive, a place where celebrities and movie stars stay, but the owner is a sponsor of the team. Only the best for his New York Angels.
I glance up at the gigantic chandelier in the lobby. The team files toward the front desk, and I hang back, watching Patterson get his key and walk past me without a glance.
I wait until the lobby clears before approaching the desk with my warmest smile.
“Hi there. I’m Kendall Hart, traveling with the Angels.”
The woman looks tired, but not unfriendly. “What can I help you with?”
“This is going to sound weird, but can you tell me what room Patterson Cross is in?”
Her eyebrows rise slightly. “I’m not really supposed to?—”
“I’m Coach Hart’s daughter.” I lean against the counter and lower my voice. “And Patterson Cross has been a thorn in my side. Total nightmare.”
Something shifts in her expression, a flicker of understanding. “I’ve checked in a lot of athletes, and I know the type.”
“Right? So, here’s the thing: I want to be on the same floor as him, close enough that if I hear anything like girls or partying or whatever, I can report it straight back to my father. I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on him.” I shrug innocently. “I’m supposed to keep him in line.”
A knowing smile spreads across her face. “He’s in 1748, and I can put you in 1747. Same floor, right next door.”
“That would be amazing. Is there any way you can add a note to my other reservations? We’re staying at the W in Chicago and DC,” I tell her.
“Of course, Ms. Hart.” She prints the new key card and slides it across the counter, and we exchange a look.
“Good luck,” she whispers. “He has quite the fan club.”
