Chapter 18 #2
“You nearly fell down the stairs.”
“That is not the part I’m talking about.”
I was increasingly aware that if I did not step away now, I might not.
I straightened. “Stay seated,” I instructed.
“I hate when you say that.”
“I am aware.”
And I retreated to the safety of my bedroom.
But I could still feel where her hands had been.
I felt like she had branded my skin with a simple touch.
It had been so long since I’d felt something like that.
So long since anyone, let alone a woman as irresistible as Belle, had touched my bare skin, my bare chest.
My damn dick was hard and not going down anytime soon. I fisted the base. I was going to have to take care of this before I returned to my day. It wasn’t going to take long, not with the feel of her pressed up against my bare chest still seared into me.
One pump had me groaning her name. What was I going to do about this attraction that was becoming undeniable? That was a problem for later. I knew how to take care of the problem I was facing right now.
I started pumping my fist over my cock, thinking about her luscious body, the little indignant ‘V’ that appeared between her brows when she was mad at me, the gasp that left her as her lips parted, the feel of her pressed up against me.
That did it. Just the thought of her body held close to mine had me spilling all over my hand.
What was I going to do about this?
I got myself cleaned up and headed into my office, where Chandler and Geoffrey were already waiting for me.
“Not a word,” I said as I sat down.
Later that day, I took her to retrieve her check.
I accompanied her inside Whitaker’s office that morning, not aggressively, not posturing, simply present.
Tripp’s demeanor shifted the moment he saw me.
The envelope was handed over without commentary.
Belle thanked him. I did not. The matter was resolved for now.
But Tripp Whitaker remained on my radar.
The rest of the day unfolded in its usual cadence.
I worked from my study while Belle remained downstairs, alternating between ice packs and what she described as ‘the worst reality television ever produced.’ Raised voices, dramatic music, and manufactured conflict intermittently filtered up the stairs.
It made her laugh. The sound did something inconvenient to my focus.
By evening, the house had settled into that softer rhythm I was beginning to anticipate. Dinner was simple. I carried our plates to the couch.
“What are we watching tonight?” I asked.
“Not the reality show,” she said. “I’ve reached my limit of people making bad decisions on purpose.”
She curled into the corner of the couch, brace visible beneath the hem of her shorts, and I settled beside her.
Not touching at first, just close. The TV was on, but neither of us paid it much attention.
We spent the evening chatting instead. I was just as attracted to her mind as I was to her body.
“I miss playing roller derby,” she said on a sigh. “I need to go to a practice soon so I can catch up with the girls.”
“Are you close with the girls on the team?”
“Yeah,” she answered immediately without even having to think. “We are a family. One big loud nosey family.”
“Nosey?”
“You don’t even know. Mel is the worst. She’s the captain and knows everyone’s business. She might even be bossier than you,” she said, grinning at me.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, but she’s also the first to help and is probably my best friend. Well, now that Eleanor has moved to town, I might actually be closer to her. Have you ever meant someone and, you know . . . something just clicks.”
I nodded. “Yes, I think I am familiar with that feeling.”
Her eyes flew up to mine. The moment felt a little too real. She must have sensed it too because she continued.
“I met her because I used to clean for her mom. She moved back in with her amazing, creepy little girl, and I convinced her to join the Reapers. Then I got fired.”
“What?” I shift on the couch a little too abruptly, shifting both of us.
“Apparently, her mother thought I was a bad influence and requested another housekeeper. Tripp punished me by only letting me work sporadically . . . until you, that is.”
“What a jack ass.”
“Right. God, I hate it. But no more talking about Tripp. We were talking about my derby girls and how much I love them.”
She settled back into me.
“I understand your fondness for your teammates, but what is it about the sport that interested you in the first place?”
She shrugged. “I think on some level I’ve always been interested in it. I like the idea of being strong.”
“You are strong,” I said it plainly because it was a basic fact.
I’d watched her those days when she was in my basement.
She moved large boxes without strain. Plus, she was caring for herself and her father while she was living in her van.
That thought still made me sick to my stomach, but she was definitely strong.
“I didn’t grow up feeling strong,” she admitted quietly.
“I can’t imagine that. You are formidable.”
“That’s learned,” she said. “Not inherited.”
“I can’t imagine you any other way.
She picked at the seam of the couch cushion absently.
“While I wasn’t always strong, my dad always told me I could be anything I wanted to be.
” Her voice softened when she spoke about him.
“He was always tinkering. Radios, lawn mowers, whatever was broken. He said if you understood how something worked, you didn’t have to be scared of it. ”
“He’s a wise man,” I said.
She smiled faintly at that.
“He wouldn’t recognize this version of me,” she murmured.
“I disagree.”
She turned toward me slightly.
“He’d see your strength,” I continued. “He’d recognize that.”
The space between us shifted. Her shoulder brushed my chest. My hand found hers on the back of the couch behind her without conscious thought. The television played something neither of us was watching.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said softly.
“Neither do I.”
“That should terrify me.”
“Does it?”
She considered that before looking up at me with a softness in her eyes I so rarely saw. “No,” she admitted. There was no gummy haze tonight. No distraction. Just clear, deliberate awareness. “Well, maybe it scares me a little,” she added.
“In what capacity?”
“I’m not sure I can trust my feelings.”
The word lodged somewhere deep. I reached up slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wished, and brushed a strand of hair back from her face.
She did not retreat.
“I only wish to protect you,” I said quietly.
Her breath caught. She leaned in first. The kiss was small. It was a question more than a statement. Her lips brushed mine, soft and warm and uncertain.
I paused. It had been a long time, but she felt too good, so I answered.
Carefully at first. Matching her pace. Letting her set the rhythm. Then a small moan escaped her, and the restraint I had been maintaining for days thinned.
I deepened the kiss. My hand slid to her waist, drawing her closer as her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. The world narrowed. Her pulse quickened beneath my palm. Mine answered, racing as hers did.
When we finally broke apart, the air between us felt altered. She was flushed.
“That,” she whispered, “was not very contractual.”
“No,” I agreed.
Her forehead rested briefly against mine.
And in that quiet, suspended moment, I understood something with absolute clarity. I was gone for this woman. Absolutely gone.
And I did not, for once, feel the need to retreat from that truth.