He sighs. “Cherry, I do not need naked pictures of myself on my phone.”
With a move so quick I don’t have time to blink, he snatches the phone away and hauls me close. “Here,” he says, holding the phone high with an outstretched arm. “If we’re doing this, you’re going to be in them.”
“You say that like I’d protest.”
We take more pictures, laughing over the results. I pause at a shot of me licking Dex’s tight little nipple. “Here’s one for my wallet.”
“Did you just quote Parenthood?” His smile is relaxed and happy. I love seeing him this way, without walls, just being himself.
“I didn’t take you for an eighties’ movie buff.”
Dex shrugs. “The guys watch a lot of cable on the road.”
“Well, bonus points for noticing, Big Guy.”
“Mmm… And what do I get as my prize?” He rolls over, taking me with him.
Much, much later, I relax against him with a sigh. “Do you think we ever truly figure out who we are?” My voice is soft.
At my side he moves, lifting his head to rest it in the cradle of his palm. “Well, now,” he drawls, “let me see if I can help you out. I’m Ethan, and you are Fiona.”
“Har.” I give his chest a lazy smack. “You know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t.” I stroke the edge of his collarbone. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone who knows their own mind as well as you do.”
He rolls his eyes, but sets his hand on my hip, caressing and edging me closer. “Babe, I hate every fucking second of getting tatted. I hate needles with a passion, yet I get a cortisone shot after nearly every practice and game. The ones in the hands skeeve me out so badly I have to look away or risk fainting.”
At this I take his hand in mine. It isn’t pretty: battered, swollen knuckles; scrapes and callouses; the middle finger crooking inward as if it’s been broken one too many times. A warrior’s hand.
Those long, scarred fingers wrap over my smaller ones with a gentle hold, and I lift his hand to my lips to kiss his reddened knuckles.
Behind the veil of his lashes, he watches me do it. “I hate those things, and yet look at me. Tatted, pierced, and a pro football player. Fact is, I run to the pain. Part of me gets off on it. So while I might know my mind, I’ve clearly got my own issues.”
He doesn’t look embarrassed by this. No, his eyes shine in good humor. Which makes all the difference and only proves my point. He knows himself in a way I don’t know myself; I envy that.
The blunt tip of his thumb, the one with a bruised nail, brushes the crest of my cheek. “Why do you ask about knowing yourself, Fi?”
With a sigh, I fall back against the pillows and stare up at my ceiling. “I don’t want to go back to work.”
“So don’t.”
A loud snort blows through my lips. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Course it is. You’re miserable there. So leave.”
A glance his way reveals that he’s absolutely serious.
“This from a football player? I thought you guys were always about never giving up. Mental and physical endurance is key, blah, blah, blah.”
He flashes a quick smile. “Blah, blah, blah? Nice to know we players are so eloquent.” His smile falls. “You also forgot ‘Don’t play the game unless you’re one-hundred-percent commented.’ Which really just means, if you don’t love it, get out. It isn’t worth the pain, otherwise.”
“If I leave, she wins.”
Dex looks at me for a moment with that stare of his that I always feel down to my bones. When he speaks, his voice is steady, thoughtful. “Winning is a subjective thing, Fi.”