Suddenly he stops, and with a sigh, he pulls the bed free of the bedspread, uncovering crisp white sheets beneath. “Can you help me?” He whispers, reaching down to unbuckle his belt.
My breath catches with my nod. This is really happening.
Lifting me off his lap with seemingly little effort, he hoists himself up to balance on his good leg. His hands fumble with his zipper, unfastening his shorts. They tumble to the ground.
With a stretch and tug of his briefs, they follow closely. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of Brett naked for the first time.
The mattress springs as he settles back onto the bed, his clothes dangling from his casted foot. “I won’t always be so helpless,” he promises as I crouch down to carefully remove them, and I sense a hint of bitterness in his voice. I remember how frustrated I was with my wrist, and that was only a sprain.
“I don’t mind, at all,” I purr. The feel of his eyes raking over my body as I stand in front of him is almost too much. But he seizes my hips and holds me still, pressing his lips against the faint silver lines on my pelvic bone. Stretchmarks that Brenna graced my body with. It’s the first time any man has ever seen me naked since having her.
When he finally releases me, I watch his body flex beautifully as he hoists himself back to settle fully into bed, his legs splayed slightly.
Waiting for me to join him.
I simply take him in for a long moment, adoring his perfect form and the human being within.
He almost died.
I almost lost him, without ever getting to know him. Without having these moments with him.
I don’t think either of us intended for things to move so quickly after—me, climbing onto the bed to admire his body, first with my hands, and then with my mouth; him, begging me to fish out a condom from the travel bag sitting on the nightstand; me, carefully straddling his hips.
Him, guiding himself into me with a low, guttural moan that I feel right where we are joined.
Me, losing myself in my body as my thighs tense and my hips roll, wanting nothing more than to hear him call my name, to feel his release, to know that he adores me.
Realizing that I’ve already fallen in love with him.
“Come on . . .” Brett’s abdominal muscles tense as he pulls himself up, his eyes glued to the TV screen previously tucked away behind armoire doors. It’s game seven of the Stanley Cup finals and I have to accept that lying naked in bed next to him while he yells at the players is simply part of the deal.
I’ll gladly take it.
So I quietly admire the curves of his back and pick at a slice of the pizza we threw in the oven earlier, while taking a break after three hours of familiarizing ourselves with each other’s bodies. I now know that Brett’s insanely ticklish around his belly button, barely able to stand being touched there. I know that the seven-inch scar across his forearm is from a skate blade during a collision. I’ve kissed every one of the six bones he has broken, aside from the ones still protected by his cast. That’s actually how I learned one of my most favorite facts about Brett—that no matter how recently he came, kissing him along his collarbone will instantly make him rock-hard.
I’ve already confirmed that twice tonight, just to be sure. I’m going to be feeling the effects of it for days to come.
Brett groans and falls backward into bed as LA scores a goal against Toronto, making it two to one. “Don’t worry. Still one period left.”
“Where’s their defense tonight?”
When I don’t answer, he turns to watch me. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
I savor a decidedly spicy green olive. “Not really, nope.”
His eyes drop to linger over my breasts and my stomach for a moment before returning. “You don’t mind me watching the game, do you?”
“Nope.” I smile, picking off another olive. This one slips from my fingers before I get it to my mouth, landing just below my belly button.
I giggle as Brett twists his body, free of covers and sprawled out, and scoops up the ring with his tongue to eat it. “Those are good olives.” He licks the spot of grease off my skin. His hot breath is a tease, my body silently begging him to shift his attention farther down as I watch his length begin to swell. Briefly considering how he’d react if I took him in my mouth now, while such a pivotal game is on. Would that annoy him?
I’m saved from wondering when the sheets are sliding down and Brett’s mouth is on me.
I lie in bed and listen to the utter silence of the night, timing my breaths with Brett’s as I watch his broad chest rise and fall slowly.
Marveling at the life that courses through those long, strong limbs that I was tangled with, that fuels the kind heart and charming mind that I am enamored with.
Wondering how it’s possible to feel this close to another human being.
Maybe he’s not the one caught up in it all. Maybe it’s me who’s under a spell. Because I never dreamed that I could feel this way about anyone.
Chapter 28
“Why are you always at our house now?” Brenna chirps, earning my glare of disapproval. She gives Brett a sheepish smile and then shifts her focus to the chips and cookies that he tossed into the cart when I wasn’t looking.
“That’ll be a hundred and forty-two even,” the teenage cashier says, blatantly staring at Brett as he swiftly moves in with a wad of twenty--dollar bills before I manage to get my wallet out.
“Don’t even.” He chuckles, nudging me forward toward the cart, treating the cashier to a dimpled smile as he collects his change.
With a heavy sigh, I push the loaded cart out of Weiss, trying to pretend that no one’s watching us. The truth is, it’s ten on a Sunday morning and everyone is watching us. It doesn’t seem to faze Brett, though, who casually greets people as he passes.
Since last weekend at Sid Durrand’s cabin, Brett has come over four out of five weekdays. Twice during the day while Brenna was at school and I didn’t have to work. And then last night, he put his feet up, turned on the baseball game—the hockey season is over, with Toronto taking home the cup—and simply stayed. We never actually discussed the idea of him staying. It just kind of happened. And it felt right.
Thankfully, it was easy enough to explain why Brett was sleeping in my bed with me—there was nowhere else for him to sleep—and I could rationalize with Brenna about why she couldn’t sleep with us—she can’t risk bumping Brett’s leg. That didn’t stop her from wandering in at six this morning to wake us both up.
So far, nothing’s been reported to the media. No one’s lurking behind Rawley’s with a camera. It’s an oddly . . . normal situation. That’s probably because we haven’t done anything as public as go grocery shopping together until now. I’ve definitely heard the whispers, felt the curious smiles.
“Why so tense?” Brett asks as we cross the parking lot.
“I’m not. Brenna, stay close.”