Chapter 17
Seventeen
Gray
The befuddlement on her face is fucking adorable.
And I want to kiss her again.
But I’ve already jumped the gun on that, giving in to the urge to taste her when I should be feeding her, should be taking care of her.
So, I temper the urge to keep pushing, to taste her again.
Instead, I relax, knowing I’m on this ride, that I’ve waited in line, boarded the roller coaster, and secured the restraints.
The teenager behind the controls is getting ready to push the button to send us off.
And I’m ready.
For better or worse, I’m gonna take this ride.
“Eat your cookie, Red,” I order just to see the adorable scowl that forms on her face in response.
She really doesn’t like orders.
I wonder if that’s everywhere…or if she wouldn’t mind them in bed.
If maybe she wouldn’t like them there. I’d make them good for her.
I promise.
Heat arrows toward my cock at the thought of giving her sensual orders, at seeing how she’d respond, phantom fingers wrapping around the length of my erection, pumping once, twice, three—
“I researched lots of things,” she says pertly.
A tone that doesn’t help the whole phantom fingers thing.
Especially when I want to taste that pert on my tongue. In fact, I actually take a step toward her, intending to do just that.
Christ.
Too much, too fast—she doesn’t need that shit right now.
Food. Rest. Hockey.
Willing my cock to behave, I flick a gaze over my shoulder, see that she’s almost finished the cookie and something in me relaxes.
“Like what?” I ask instead of kissing her…or telling her to get going on the sandwich.
Her eyes come to mine and hold, and I love that there’s not a hint of shy, that her pretty brown eyes don’t drift away and aren’t filled with shadows and hurt. Instead, there’s excitement and intelligence…and suspicion.
“Why do you want to know?”
I lift my brows in question before turning back to the stove, giving the pan one more stir before finishing it off with a pat of butter and another dash of seasonings. “I think it’s interesting. I haven’t met an author before, least of all one who writes books about hockey.”
“Only five of them,” she murmurs.
“Ask me how many I’ve written,” I deadpan, serving up the food and bringing the plates over to the island. Her cookie is gone, along with the PB thoughtful, albeit with a brick wall surrounding her heart; fragile but only because she’s been shattered and glued back together too many times to count.
And beneath all of that is…fire.
Passion. Smarts. Strength. A dash of temper.
We finish our food in easy silence and I bring the dishes to the sink, refusing her offer of help. Instead, I lift her off the counter, grab some of the bags—the ones I know contain clothes and toiletries—then hitch my head down the hall. “Let me show you your digs.”
She doesn’t protest as she trails me, and I know it’s because her energy is waning, the fatigue catching up with her.
Lucky, my guest room isn’t far.
When we get there, I peek through the bags, snag one with toiletries, another with pajamas—I skip a bra, telling myself it’s because they’re uncomfortable to sleep in, but really, it’s mostly because I like the idea of Faye without a bra—and pass them to her.
“Shower,” I command, nudging her toward the attached bathroom.
“Orders,” she says with a scowl, but she doesn’t argue, just slips into the other room, closing the door behind her. A moment later, I hear the water turn on.
Faye naked in the shower.
Christ, what I wouldn’t give to see that.
Not the time.
Shoving the image of her naked and wet from my brain, I make short work of unpacking and putting away the items everyone brought.
Tees and sweats that are velvet soft, bras and underwear and socks, a couple of hoodies.
And a few nicer items too—several pairs of jeans, some blouses, a few dresses and sweaters.
Shoes too—everything from flip-flops to sneakers to a couple pairs of heels.
Altogether, it barely fills a quarter of the closet, one drawer in the dresser.
“This is too much,” I hear and I turn, see her in pajamas that should be cute and cozy, but instead are all sorts of tempting, her hair bundled on top of her head, her skin pink and damp and tempting.
It’s not too much.
It’s barely enough to get her started.
But I know what she means.
My teammates and their women—my family—really thought of everything.
There’s even a swimsuit.
And I hope to God I’ll get to see Faye in it, laying out by my pool, her curves gilded from the sunshine or with slick, glistening skin after taking a dip in my hot tub.
She shifts beside me and I focus.
“This is what we do,” I murmur, proud that despite the shitshow that’s been my personal life over the last couple seasons, I’ve still managed to keep the locker room healthy. Hell, half the time, it’s been the guys keeping me sane as I weathered Storm Courtney.
Something that stings my pride, I can’t lie.
But…it’s what we do.
I nudge her back so she’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, fixing the Velcro on her splint she didn’t quite manage to attach evenly. “Shower go okay with the bandages?” She has some stitches and burns that needed treatment.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Everything’s clean and dry.”
I want to check, but…
Rest.
And hockey.
And patience.
So instead, I snag the pair of socks I kept out, tug them on her adorable feet, pressing a kiss to the top of each afterward, and though I want to linger, she needs to rest. I move to the dresser and grab the remote, setting it and my phone on the nightstand next to the container of Bri’s cookies, just in case she needs a midnight snack.
“For your calls,” I explain when confusion flickers across her deep brown eyes. I give her the passcode then point to the cookies. “For your tummy. And—” I wink as I tap the remote. “Because you’ll want to watch the Grizzlies game later.”
She smiles and it’s so beautiful, I know the right thing to do is to walk away, to distance her from the storm that’s my life.
But even now, after so little time together, the thought of leaving her alone in the quiet aftermath of her life…
Is impossible,