CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hardy
I watch her taillights until the red fades away.
What the fuck was that?
Unexpected? Yes.
What I’ve wanted since that first day I saw her? Bloody hell, yes.
Inviting her up to my place? Definitely a what the fuck moment in my world. That’s one place women never get invited back to. Once they come, they never leave. Or if they do leave, they start showing up constantly.
But Christ . I pull down on my neck with one hand and try to figure out what it is about the damn woman that has me so baffled.
The sex was fucking sensational. I knew it would be.
She came to me willingly , and for Whitney, that speaks volumes.
Everything about the woman turns me the fuck on. Her quiet confidence despite that underlayer of hesitancy. Her need for levity when shit gets too real. Her athletic build and the softness of her curves in spite of it. And the way she kept her eyes on me when she came.
She let her guard slip and let me see more than she’d intended. Lust. Fear. Longing. Confusion. A mixture of baggage that has me wanting to unpack it rather than ship it off unopened.
And talk about letting guards slip. Isn’t that what I just did? I had sex in the fucking stadium. On the bloody pitch .
I mean, I’ve fucked in some random places but never where I work. What’s the saying? Don’t shit where you eat? Yeah, I never have before.
Until now.
Until her.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, throw my head back, and laugh into the empty night.
How do I already want her again?
How fucked is it that I truly do when I just fucking had her? Wanting too much can cause the crazies to be crazier. And yet, here I am, staring after her car and already wanting her again.
Better or easier?
It’s my question. Is it better to be uncomplicated or easier?
I asked it.
And I fucking hated her answer when normally I’d be the first one to fist bump over it.
Most women I can’t shake even if they know going into the night that it’s a one-and-done type thing.
Then there’s Whitney Barnes. The woman I can still taste, still feel wrapped around my cock, and she doesn’t give a shit about who I am or the life I live.
It’s the weirdest fucking feeling. Liberating in one sense. Obsessive to figure out why not in another.
Both.
That was her answer without hesitation.
Well maybe I don’t like the answer.
Or maybe I need to reword the question until I get the answer I want.