Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Kaden
How to Lose Control (and Like It)
This feels weird.
I can’t remember the last time I brought someone with me to my parents’ house. Not because I don’t like being here—it’s fine—but the idea of showing up with anyone? Not just anyone, a girl I’m supposed to be dating? Feels like a circus waiting to happen. The minute my family realizes I’ve got someone with me, they’ll swarm her like she’s the last puck on the ice in a tied championship game. At least for now, it’s just Dad.
Killion’s training, but he said he’d swing by later for dinner—claims he wants to “meet the girlfriend.” Of course, he knows the truth. She’s fake. I couldn’t exactly avoid telling him when he literally dragged his ass to my house, demanding an explanation like he’s auditioning for an older brother role he already has. We’re only two minutes apart, but he acts like those 120 seconds make him the boss of me. It’s fucking exasperating.
“So now that we have rules, what else do we need?” I ask, hoping that’ll be enough to wrap this up so I can head to my room, take a nap, and then maybe train if Dad still wants to run drills later.
Honestly, all I wanted today was to come home and fucking relax. No press. No PR plans. No rules. Just a quiet day off. But no. She had to message me this morning, demanding we talk about the “plan.” Like I’m not already juggling a thousand things.
Valentina crosses her legs, one bouncing slightly as she looks at me like I’ve asked the dumbest question in the history of the universe. “What else do we need? Maybe an actual plan? You can’t just wing this, Kaden.”
I groan. “You just made rules. Isn’t that enough? Smile for the cameras, keep our stories straight, don’t ‘freelance.’ Seems pretty straightforward to me.”
She levels me with a look that makes my skin itch. “Rules aren’t a plan. Rules are boundaries. A plan means figuring out how to make this convincing. Body language, chemistry, shared anecdotes. And I don’t know—maybe deciding how to handle your family.”
I run a hand through my hair, letting out a slow breath. “They’re not that bad.”
“They’re Crawfords,” she says, like that explains everything. “Even I know what that means, and I’ve only been dealing with you for a couple of days.”
“Right,” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “Because my family’s a fucking institution. Thanks for reminding me.”
She ignores my tone, sitting up straighter, her eyes practically drilling into me. “Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do, but if we’re going to pull this off, we can’t half-ass it. If I go in there and your brothers or Scottie or whoever asks me something I can’t answer, it’s going to blow up in our faces.”
I groan louder this time, slouching back in the chair like I can sink through it and disappear. “Fine. What do you want to know? My favorite color? How I take my coffee?”
Her brow arches, unimpressed. “Not the basics. Something important.”
“Something important,” I repeat with mock seriousness, leaning forward. “Okay, let’s go to my bedroom. I’ll give you the grand tour of young Kaden’s life. I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, blinking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“You heard me,” I say, crossing my arms. “I’ll even throw in commentary while you’re scrutinizing. And then, while you’re occupied, I’ll take a nap.”
“What? That’s ridiculous,” she screeches, standing up so fast her chair scrapes against the floor. “You can’t nap your way through this, Kaden. This takes actual effort.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” I insist, my voice rising slightly to match her energy. “We’ll kill two birds with one stone. You get your intel, and I get to sleep.”
She narrows her gaze. “Fine, let’s do it your way. Then, I’ll start making up stories about your decorative throw pillows. Hope you’re cool with me telling everyone you have ones shaped like hockey pucks.”
I push out of the chair with a groan, motioning for her to follow. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“Right back at you,” she mutters, trailing me toward the staircase.
We climb the wide staircase, the kind that makes everything in this house feel larger than life. The polished wood gleams under the sunlight streaming through the massive windows, and every step echoes faintly in the cavernous space. It’s annoyingly pristine—like a luxury hotel trying too hard.
I stop at the door to my room and push it open. “Here,” I say, gesturing with a sweeping motion. “The lair of young Kaden Crawford.”
Valentina steps inside and stops dead, her gaze sweeping over the room. “This can’t be the room where you grew up.”
“It was,” I say with a shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “My parents renovated the whole house after Greyson moved out. He’s the youngest, so once he left, the ‘rents decided they were done with the ‘we-have-six-kids’ aesthetic.”
Valentina snorts, her hand trailing over the sleek, minimalist desk. “True, this doesn’t look like a house that raised six kids. It looks like an interior design magazine threw up in here.”
“Exactly,” I say, flopping onto the bed. The mattress barely bounces under me—fucking memory foam. “Minimalistic. Modern. Basically, everything that screams, ‘We survived chaos and now want peace.’”
Valentina takes another step, turning to eye the bed. “So this is where you used to dream about hockey and practice your charming grumpiness?”
I grab a pillow and toss it at her. “Hardly. Back then, it was a shrine to my childhood obsession with the Sharks, the Ocean, and about fifty trophies. My parents gave some stuff away, saved a few things for the grandchildren they hope will come one day, and replaced it with this.” I gesture at the white walls and sleek, neutral furniture. “Apparently, ‘personality’ doesn’t match the vibe. According to Pops, we should be thankful they let us have our room back.”
She catches the pillow with ease, hugging it to her chest as she smirks. “I don’t know. I think you’d fit in just fine with these clean lines and neutral colors. Matches your sunny disposition.”
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan, closing my eyes and propping myself up against the headboard. “Are we done here? You’ve seen the room. You can make up whatever bullshit story you want now.”
“Oh, no,” she says, pacing to the window and peering out at the stables below. “We’re not done. I need details. What’s your nighttime routine? Do you snore? Have you ever cried yourself to sleep?”
“Are you writing a fucking memoir about me?”
“Just making sure I’m prepared,” she says, spinning back to face me with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, tell me—what’s the most embarrassing thing your family might bring up?”
I groan, dragging a pillow over my face. “This is torture.”
“No,” she says cheerfully. “This is planning. Now talk, Crawford.”
So she wants the nitty-gritty? Fine. I can give it to her. I sit up, yanking my shirt over my head, exposing my abs. “I usually sleep naked,” I say nonchalantly, tossing the shirt onto the chair.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice a little shaky as her eyes dart anywhere but at me.
“You said you want to know my routine,” I reply, smirking as I kick off my shoes, the soft thud of them hitting the floor filling the room. “I’m more of a ‘show and tell’ kind of guy. Oh, and no socks in bed. Feels fucking weird.”
“I don’t care about those things,” she says, her voice trembling slightly as her arms cross over her chest. She takes a step back, her bravado slipping just a little.
I stand up from the bed, moving toward her with deliberate ease, and twist the lock on the door with a soft click. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. I cock an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching upward as I enjoy the way her confidence is faltering. “Afraid to see me naked, Valentina Holiday?” I tease, stepping closer, letting the space between us shrink. My grin widens when she shifts uncomfortably. “Didn’t think you’d get shy on me.”
“I’m not afraid,” she stammers, her chin lifting in defiance even as her cheeks flush a rosy pink.
“Good,” I say smoothly, leaning in just enough to make her breath hitch. “Because it would really ruin the vibe if my fake girlfriend couldn’t handle me flirting with her.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but her gaze betrays her, flickering to my chest before darting away again. “This isn’t flirting, Crawford. This is you being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” I echo, taking another slow step toward her, deliberately closing the distance. “Is this kind of flirting not to your liking, baby?”
Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She takes another step back, her heel bumping into the edge of the desk. Her escape route is gone, and I take full advantage, placing a hand on the desk beside her, leaning down slightly until we’re almost nose to nose. My grin turns wolfish as I watch her throat bob with a nervous swallow.
“What happened to all those rules of yours?” I murmur, my voice low and deliberate, brushing over her like velvet. “No improvising, no surprises. Well, I’m showing you what happens when I’m flirting, baby. I’m showing you just how very, very attentive I can be to your needs.”
“I don’t have needs,” she shoots back, but her voice is shaky, her resolve hanging by a thread. “And this isn’t flirting. This is you being . . . you.”
I chuckle, the sound rough and quiet. “You’re right. This is me. And you better get used to it, Valentina. Because if you’re gonna keep throwing rules in my face, I’m going to show you just how well I can follow them.”
Her eyes narrow, attempting to glare at me, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I say, my voice dropping as I tilt in just enough to feel her breath hitch again, “here you are, trying to get to know me—all of me.”
For a second, the space between us feels charged, the tension so thick it’s almost unbearable. Her chest rises and falls, her breath quickening, her hands gripping the desk behind her like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.
“This was supposed to be professional,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
I move closer, so close there’s barely a breath between us, so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Her lips part slightly, and I can’t tell if it’s in protest or anticipation, but it doesn’t matter. We’re a kiss away, and my control is hanging by a thread.
“You know,” I murmur, my voice low, teasing, “they say once you’ve done something for a thousand hours, it’s considered professional.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the world tilts. Before she can respond, I close the distance, my lips capturing hers in a kiss that’s immediate, intense, and impossible to hold back. Her lips are soft, maddeningly so, and she tastes like sweetness and temptation, a combination so addictive it’s dangerous.
I press closer, my hands finding her waist, and as she melts into me, one thought consumes me: I’m already ruined, and I don’t care.
Her gasp against my mouth fuels me, a sound that stirs something deep in my chest, igniting a need I can’t ignore. I press closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back, bringing her against me. For a heartbeat, she stiffens, caught off guard, but then her fingers curl into my shirt, and she kisses me back, her resolve crumbling like fragile glass.
She’s a contradiction—stubborn and fiery one moment, soft and yielding the next. It’s maddening, the way she shifts between defiance and surrender, keeping me on edge and leaving me off balance. I want to unravel her completely, to see her as undone as I feel right now. My chest tightens, each heartbeat thundering in a way I can’t ignore. This isn’t just lust; it’s something deeper, something that pulls at me in ways I don’t fully understand and it’s nearly impossible to name.
It’s fire and frustration, heat and hesitation, all colliding in one messy, explosive kiss. When I finally break the kiss, her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. She’s breathtaking, and it pisses me off how much I want her. How much I want her to want this—want me.
“That,” I say, my voice rough and low, “was me being fucking professional. You want to know something else, Val?”
Her wide eyes meet mine, and for once, she seems at a loss of words. “Wh-what else?” she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.
I grab her hand and press it firmly against the rigid length straining beneath my jeans, letting her feel exactly how far she’s pushed me. “You make me so fucking hard, baby. So hard it makes me want to drive you as crazy as you’re driving me.”
Her breath catches, her lips parting as her gaze flicks down to where our hands meet. “I—I’m not torturing you,” she says, her voice trembling but still defiant.
I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear as I murmur. “Can you feel what you’re doing to me, sweetheart?” I nip at her earlobe, enjoying the way she shivers under my touch. “You did this, and I think you should take responsibility for what you’ve done.”
“Responsibility?” she repeats, her tone incredulous. She’s so fucking adorable, it’s infuriating.
I lower my lips to her neck, trailing kisses down the column of her throat, letting my teeth graze her skin just enough to make her gasp. “Yes, baby,” I whisper against her pulse, savoring the way it races under my lips. “Tell me you’re wet for me, sweetheart. So fucking wet that if I push my finger into your cunt, it’ll come out soaked in your juices.”
Her lips part, a soft, shaky exhale escaping. “Soaking,” she repeats, the word barely audible but dripping with need.
“Good girl,” I say, my voice husky as I kiss her collarbone, my hands sliding down to her waist, holding her firmly against me. “I think you’re a good girl who might want to get a little dirty with me. What do you think, Val? Do you want to know more about what I like?”
She doesn’t answer right away, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps as her fingers tighten in my shirt. Her hesitation only makes me want her more—to see how far I can push her, how much of this tension she can take before she breaks completely.