Mm, cinnamon.Tastes like . . . mine.
I pulled away first, cheeks blazing.Oh, fuck.I’d just kissed him. In front of everyone. Had I made a mistake doing it in public? What if he didn’t like PDA?
Bennett didn’t give me time to spiral.
This time, when his mouth touched mine, the knot in my stomach unraveled.
A loud wolf whistle sliced through the air, followed by a cacophony of cheers from his teammates, plus a handful of nearby market shoppers.
“Get it, King,” Roman shouted.
At the same time, Matty grumbled, “It’s about damn time.”
I laughed against Bennett’s lips, the sound bubbling up before I could stop it.
He made a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, a growl that I felt more than heard. His hand slid from my cheek to my chin, his fingers firm as he tilted my face exactly where he wanted.
He held me there, not letting me pull away even an inch, and kissed me again, deeper this time, like he was staking a claim right in front of his friends and the Saturday morning kale crowd.
By the time he finally eased back, I was clinging to his coat just to stay upright. He brushed a loose curl behind my ear.
“Don’t you have a hat?” he asked.
I laughed, still a little breathless. “I left it at home.”
He didn’t say anything else. Just reached up, peeled his own beanie off, and, before I could protest, pulled it down over my head instead. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, thumbs brushing my temples as he adjusted it so it sat just right.
The warmth was immediate.
“There,” he said quietly.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Parker stage-whisper, “Told you.Hornyred.”
Bennett
Seven Weeks to Opening Day
If Bella wanted an “unromantic non-date” on Valentine’s Day, then she was going to get it. And as far as I was concerned, there was nothing less romantic than waking up before seven a.m. on a Sunday morning.
The sky was still dark by the time I knocked on her door. I’d been up since five, nerves buzzing worse than before a playoff game.
Bella had made it crystal clear that she wasn’t into the usual, cheesy Valentine’s Day crap—that made two of us—but this was still our first date, so yeah, I was nervous.
You can’t blame a guy for caring.
When she opened the door, the porch light caught her just right, and for a second I forgot how to breathe.
She was drowning in my Roasters sweatshirt, the charcoal one I’d given her the night of the blackout. It hung off one shoulder, sleeves rolled three times just to free her hands, hem brushing mid-thigh over dark leggings.
The thing was comically oversized on her, swallowing her curves in soft gray fabric, but somehow it looked like couture. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few dark strands escaping around her face, and she had that sleepy, just-woke-up glow that made my chest tighten.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “You look way too upbeat for seven a.m.”
I grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “You wanted the least romantic date ever. I aim to please.”
She scoffed. “Overachiever.”
