Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
“Taking things slow” apparently meant stealing Hendrix to my home and making out with him until we passed out from sheer exhaustion.
When I wake in the morning, my lips are still tender. Hendrix is sprawled across most of the bed, one arm behind his head and his other hand buried in his boxers. I don’t mind him taking up so much space because it means there is so much more of him for me to touch. He’d shed his shirt sometime during the night, and I savor the view of him bare-chested in my bed. The duvet is bunched around his thighs, so most of his body is on full display for my admiration.
I could stare at him all day.
Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that. I’ve already slept in later than I usually allow myself to, and kickoff is at noon today. I have a feeling the whole team will be half-asleep, but me? It’s hard to convince myself I’m not still dreaming.
Hendrix—the man who hated me the first time we met—confessed feelings for me last night. Feelings that I very much reciprocate. I’d thought it was hopeless, that I was going to spend however long trying to get over him while being just friends, but I was wrong. He likes me. He wants me.
Yeah, and you almost ate his brain through his dick last night, you harlot.
Okay, that, while accurate, is a little harsh , I tell my internal voice.
The fact is, I always rush into relationships way too quickly. Not in the emotional sense but in the physical aspects. Intimacy, sex, moving in together . I’m a habitual gun jumper, not going to lie.
I want things to be different with Hendrix because I feel different with Hendrix. I don’t have to hide the darkest parts of me; he already knows them all. He doesn’t let the fact that I have depression get in the way of us being happy. If my smile falls short, he doesn’t demand to know if I have taken my meds or not. Save for the one time I had to assure him I wasn’t drinking, he’s left me alone about what drink is in my hand at parties or the club. He trusts me. Just as I have trusted him with every one of my secrets.
It’s nice being able to share that burden, and I also appreciate the fact he has let me take on some of his. It’s as if I have found someone as broken and healed as I am, and for once, I’m on a level playing field.
And the worst thing I can do is dive in ass over tits.
With an exaggerated stretch, I lazily rub my body against his, savoring the feel of his hairy legs against mine. He’d torn my shirt off me the minute we stepped in my house last night, so I am also only in a pair of boxer briefs. My bare stomach presses against his equally as bare side, and I shiver at the contact. God, it has been too damn long since I had someone, and I’ve been dreaming of Hendrix beside me for more than half that time.
“Rix,” I coo softly in his ear before gently nipping at the lobe. The hand in his boxers sleepily drifts lower, forearm and bicep flexing as he groggily pets his morning wood. I let out something between a chuckle and a low hum, letting the vibration echo between us. “I could get used to waking up like this.”
Damnit, Tahegin! What the fuck? What happened to taking it slow, not jumping the gun, not offering to fucking live together 0.2 days into the relationship?
Wait, relationship? Are we dating? It sure the fuck sounded like we both wanted that last night, but maybe Hendrix only wants to keep it casual without a label?
“Mmm.” Hendrix lets out a satisfied sound, arm still flexing. His voice is a low rumble filled with sleep. “Either get up and take a shower or sit back and enjoy the show, but right now, I’m hard, and I have last night’s hot-as-fuck make-out session on repeat in my head. What do you say—keep it slow and play it safe, or skip the line a bit?”
Jesus, he’s just as bad as I am!
Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath—which doesn’t really help because all it does is fill my nose with the scent of his morning musk—and say, “I’ll go shower. I told you, I want to do this right.”
“Fuck, T,” he groans, and I can’t tell if he’s complaining about my abstinence or if he’s imagining my hand in his boxers stroking him. But then the movement of his body stills, and I open my eyes to see him already watching me. He gnaws on his lip, considering the words dancing on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he asks, “Do you . . . find me attractive?”
“Of course!”
“I mean in a way that makes you want to do things with me. You seem to have a lot of self-control when it comes to me asking for sex, and I’m not sure I would be able to stand my ground as easily as you are.”
“Maybe I should be on Broadway, then, because I promise it’s all an act. I want you, Hendrix. Desperately. But I also want to be smart about this, and I don’t want to drive you away by pushing too far too fast. You’re fine to lay there and imagine I’m getting you off, but would you reciprocate? Have you thought about touching me that way? Rushing into a bad experience could make you nervous to try anything else—and that is why I can so easily hold back. I’d rather go slow and keep you in the end than rush and lose you.”
“Oh.”
“But please, please , do not stop making your offers. I like knowing you’re thinking about me and that you are beginning to want me in that way. Now, I’m gonna go shower and jerk off thinking about you in here making a mess of my sheets, okay?”
He releases an anguished groan, arm muscles tightening. “Leave the door cracked?”
Too soon, too soon, too soon .
Instead of entirely shooting him down since he is already worried about my feelings for him, I toss him a playful wink as I stand, muttering a cheeky “You wish.” I slip into the bathroom, softly shut the door, and let the shower warm up as I stare at myself in the mirror. In all the excitement last night, I hadn’t taken my contacts out before bed, so now they are dry and cloudy, making it nearly impossible to read my affirmations.
With deft hands from years of practice, I swipe my contacts out and let my eyes breathe as I strip and step into the shower. Hot water sluices down my back, loosening the muscles there, pulling a sigh of relief from deep within my chest.
God, how long have I been holding on to the tension of wanting Hendrix and knowing I shouldn’t? Too long, if the way my shoulders finally relax is any indication. I swear they drop a good few inches, no longer attached to my ears with worry.
I wasn’t lying when I told him that I will be thinking of him while in here, but no matter how good my hand feels while soaping my skin, I don’t give in to the desire to rub one out. It almost seems like it would be a disappointing step down now that I know Hendrix wants me.
I can wait, I decide, and when Hendrix and I do finally come together—no pun intended—it will be well worth the wait.
Tucking a towel around my waist, I take my time pampering my skin and hair with lotion and oil; the dry chill of winter has the hydration wicking away every time I turn around. The turf burn on my forearms is already a pain in the ass—I don’t need my elbows and knees cracking with each movement, too. My glasses sit delicately on my nose as I leave the bathroom, giving my eyes the chance to recuperate after sleeping in my contacts.
Hendrix isn’t in the bedroom when I return, so I drop my towel on my way to the closet. And of course, I’m fully nude, searching my dresser for a specific pair of boxers, when Hendrix darts into the bedroom. The door slams behind him, and his back falls against it with a heavy thud. His eyes are wide when they meet mine through the closet doorway.
“There are a lot of people in your house,” he pants as if he ran up the stairs on his way to my bedroom.
I quirk my eyebrow at the green smoothie in his hand before my gaze sinks lower, past his bare chest, to a sinful pair of boxers that are doing nothing to hide the prominent outline of his package. “Did you—” I break off to stifle a chuckle. “Did you go out there like that?”
“It’s not funny,” he hisses.
“You have a hickey on your neck,” I point out. “It’s kind of funny.”
“Tahegin.”
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I forgot that there are more staff around on game days. If it makes you feel any better, they all signed NDAs when they were hired.”
Hendrix suddenly goes very, very pale—face literally as white as a sheet. “They . . . You have people sign . . . Of course you do. You’re rich and famous and-and a man and my teammate and— Christ, T, what are we doing?” Frantic fingers grab at his already sleep-mussed hair. “People are going to see us together.”
Despite having just brushed, a bitter taste fills my mouth. I lick over my teeth, pursing my lips. “Ouch.” He can’t mean it the way it sounds, can he? Is he . . . embarrassed to be seen with me? Does he only want to be with me when no one is watching? “Tell me that came out wrong, Hendrix.”
“It . . . a little, but not all of it.” He fumbles to set the green smoothie on the floor. As he stands, his gaze lifts, and he freezes in an odd half crouch, staring at me. “Are we—” He clears his throat. “—going to have this conversation while you’re naked?”
Huh. I forgot about that.
Frustration has me throwing all the neatly folded boxers in my drawer to the ground in search of that one fucking pair. My favorite pair that I wear all the time. I know they’re in here. They have to be in here, damnit!
I pause, take a breath, and consciously unclench my aching jaw. The spike of heated emotion isn’t necessary, but I know where it comes from. The knowledge doesn’t make me feel better, per se—but knowing that I can’t help the way my brain is wired does. Well, the meds help some, but bursts of heightened emotion can still happen—overwhelming sadness, elated happiness, red-hot frustration.
Shit, shit, shit , I curse to myself as I settle for a different pair of underwear. This. This is why I’m always jumping dick-first into a relationship—so I don’t have to explain my emotions and how they can fluctuate. Of course, in the past, it only led to more problems when a partner came over because I offered for them to stay night after night, subjecting them to seeing me at my worst and best every day without explanation.
It’s me, isn’t it? I am the reason why he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Because I?—
“I didn’t know you have another tattoo.” Hendrix must have come closer at some point during my mental berating. He’s only a few feet away now, leaning against the doorjamb of the closet. Those stormy grey eyes are guarded as they follow the movement of my hands pulling my boxers up my legs, over my thighs, to settle the waistband on my hips.
I glance down at the tattoo he is referring to, but the small semicolon is placed so low on my left hip that it doesn’t even peek out of my boxers. “Well,” I huff. “We hadn’t gotten that far.” He would have discovered it once we were naked together, but now the odds aren’t looking too well for that.
Hendrix closes the space between us, a look of determination on his face as he enters the closet. “T,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact as he ever so slowly sinks to his knees on the carpeted floor. Fingers skim my hip bones before tucking into the waistband of my boxers, and then, millimeter by millimeter, he tugs them down.
My breath hitches as a long-standing fantasy of mine literally unfolds right in front of my eyes: Hendrix on his knees and looking at me like I am his own personal Super Bowl championship ring.
He only exposes enough skin that my tattoo becomes visible on the divot of my hip, just inches below the bone he lovingly caresses on his downward journey. My root and the trimmed tight curls on my pubic bone are right there , my thickening shaft nearly touching his chin through the fabric restraining it. Still watching me, Hendrix leans forward and presses a gentle kiss on the semicolon tattoo.
I’m pretty sure I stop breathing.
“Please let me explain,” he whispers against my skin.
My agreement is entirely too fast—a quick nod and a blurted “Yes.”
Sitting back on his heels, he leaves my boxers low as he tries to make up for his earlier words. “I am worried,” he begins slowly, “about putting this out there for public consumption before I . . .” A heavy sigh falls from his lips. “What if you’re right, and I’m not . . . bi? I would have come out to the world only to turn around and take it back. People would speculate—maybe even blame you for making me change my mind or something. I just want to be sure.”
Okay, that makes a good amount of sense.
But, damn. It’s been a long time since I kept my relationships secret from the public and never from my family or?—
I bite my lip, already dreading his answer to my next question. “What about our teammates?”
“I want to wait to tell them, too.”
“For how long?” My voice is way too quiet, too full of emotion.
Hendrix hangs his head as if ashamed of his answer. “Until the end of summer?”
A noise of disbelief jumps from my mouth without conscious permission.
“The end of summer at the latest,” he quickly corrects. “We’re so busy with football right now, then we have the playoffs, and maybe the Bowl if we’re lucky. I’m not sure when we’re going to do more than kiss, but once we do, maybe we can start by telling Micah and Aleks. We can take our time in the summer, and then tell the team during training camp. Then, eventually, the public.”
“I . . .” It’s different—and not at all what I would choose if I wasn’t so determined to make this work—but I am willing to try. For him. It might do us good to spend time just the two of us before the gossip hounds get a hold of us.
His hands return to my skin, this time on my sides above my hips, and his thumbs travel small circles on my belly that slowly get bigger until he swipes over my navel. Pleasure shoots directly from his thumb to my balls.
I gasp, my fingers burying in his messy blond hair. “Y-you aren’t playing fair.”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning forward to flick the tip of his tongue across the insanely sensitive flesh of my belly button. “I’m being very fair,” he murmurs, hot air grazing the cooling wetness left from his lick. “You want to take things slow in the bedroom, and I want to take them slow with the public. It looks like we will be going very—” Lick. “—very—” Open-mouth kiss. “—slow.” Squeezing his thumbs on either side of my belly, he bunches the skin just enough to nip the rim of my navel.
The intense, euphoric feel of it has me releasing a quick shout, my hands holding tight to his head, keeping him pressed there as I ride the swell of pleasure, my toes curling. “Fuck me,” I groan, cursing because I am such an idiot for wanting to do this the right way.
Hendrix releases my skin and pulls back, a wicked grin spreading across his face. If I wasn’t so overwhelmed by the desire burning low in my gut and between my legs, I’d be in awe of that smile. I’ve managed to get him to crack a wholesome few while laughing, but this one feels like it was made for me. “I can’t,” he practically purrs. “We’re taking it slow, remember?”
How have the tables so drastically turned? I am usually the one to give sly grins and cheeky words, not him. I’m the one who has actually been with a man, but he is the one rushing ahead. He was averse to touch when we first met, and now he can’t stop touching me in all these deliciously sinful ways.
“Then stand up,” I pant, breathless with need. “Before I skip about a million steps.”
With one more kiss to my tattoo, Hendrix stands and corrects my waistband. Then, he presses his mouth to mine in a sweet good-morning kiss, a lingering taste of kale and mint on his lips from the smoothie.
Pleased, I hum into the kiss and let my hands slide up his bare stomach and chest to rest on his shoulders. I finally break away when our eagerness starts to turn into excitement. “I want to call you my boyfriend,” I breathe in a rush against his mouth.
Hendrix leans back to look at me, lips deliciously wet and swollen. “Hmph.”
Hmph? Hmph what? Is it too soon? Am I rushing like I always do?
My wide eyes must convey my internal freak-out because Hendrix chuckles and pecks my lips. “I kind of figured that’s what we are to each other,” he says teasingly. “Unless that’s too fast for you?—”
“No. Yes.” Damnit. “I mean, no, it isn’t too fast. Yes, I want to be boyfriends. I’m planning to reiterate to the staff that they signed a nondisclosure and that you will be here more often. I know we aren’t telling anyone yet, but it’s the only way I can think to?—”
A finger presses to my lips, cutting me off. “I understand, and that’s fine. Let’s do it.”
I offer him some clean clothes I hope will fit him, and he accepts them with a skeptical look at the tight boxer briefs. Recalling that time he told me about the struggles of his large package—as if I could ever forget—I internally groan yet again at the fact that I can’t have him inside me yet, stretching me, filling me. He can stretch and fill those boxers, though.
He showers and dresses before we head downstairs together, him chugging the remainder of his green smoothie that can’t possibly still be cold.
There are cleaners in every room—a whole crew for things I’d never think to do like dusting, fluffing pillows, and shaking curtains to prevent dust bunnies from building up. They sweep and mop and—I don’t even know—wax the floors? Vacuum couches and tune the piano that never gets used. This crew comes once a week. My mother recommended them.
My first stop is the kitchen, where Emma is putting the finishing touches on breakfast. She always makes plenty to keep up with my high calorie intake, but today, I notice there are more eggs and oats and lean turkey sausage than usual. Taking a seat at the kitchen bar, I give her a bright smile and gesture to the man occupying the chair beside me. “Emma, this is Hendrix. Hendrix, Emma.”
“We met,” she responds politely, as she always is, and busies herself wiping down the counter. “I made extra in case he joined you for breakfast, Mr. Ellingsworth. I have your smoothie in the refrigerator. Did you want another one, Mr. . . .” She looks at Hendrix, and so do I.
“Hendrix is fine,” he tells her in a flat tone. “And no. The first one was plenty.”
Satisfied with her cleaning, Emma tosses her rag down the laundry chute. “Well, I’m off to the store. Any special requests, Mr. Ellingsworth?”
“No, Emma. Thank you. Before you go, I want to emphasize how much I value you as an employee because you have always been accommodating to my guests and discreet about your employment as my nutritionist. That being said, I’d like to inform you that Hendrix is my boyfriend, and he will be here as often as I can convince him to come. I’d appreciate your discretion with this as well.”
She goes still, eyeing me oddly—probably because I have never tried to ensure her loyalty and silence the way I am right now. “Of course, Mr. Ellingsworth. I would never speak of you or your guests to those greedy gossips.” She turns to the man beside me. “Mr. Hendrix, is there anything I can get from the store for you? Mr. Ellingsworth makes shopping entirely too easy for me.”
Hendrix is already shaking his head, not wanting to trouble her. “No, I’m fine.”
“He doesn’t eat meat,” I practically interrupt when I realize he isn’t going to be forthcoming with information. “And he likes barbecue.”
“Tahegin,” he hisses. I glance over to see his cheeks tinged adorably pink.
Waving him off, I say goodbye to Emma before filling my plate with eggs and all the meat. I leave most of the oats and fruit for Hendrix, as well as a little over half the eggs. My protein intake will be high this morning, fiber and vitamins lower than usual, but I know the green smoothie waiting in the fridge has plenty of supplements to keep me on track.
“Where does most of your protein come from?” I ask him as we eat.
“Eggs,” he says around a mouthful, pointing his fork at his plate. “I really like chickpeas; I’ll eat them as hummus, crispy snacks, mashed, made into veggie patties—all sorts of ways. Tofu isn’t bad if it is cooked right. Oats. Beans—especially in a hearty vegetable stew. Peanut butter, of course. Spinach in salads or a smoothie. Milk. I drink a lot of milk. Protein bars or meal replacement shakes. If I need a boost, I’ll dry scoop some protein powder.”
I wrinkle my nose at that last one, but otherwise, it all sounds good. I could totally be vegetarian.
But bacon . . .
“Aren’t you going to ask me?”
I tilt my head, giving him a curious look. “Ask you what?”
“If I’ll try eating meat again? My past girlfriends always pulled that ‘please, for me’ crap.”
“Hey.” I shrug. “If you aren’t asking me to eat applesauce”— don’t gag, don’t gag, don’t gag— “then I won’t question your choices.”
He laughs in such a carefree manner, grey eyes alight with humor and lips forming an endearingly crooked, toothy grin, that I have to blink in shock. Whatever happened to the grumpy guy from all those months ago, I don’t care because this —this is the real Hendrix Avery.
And now he is all mine.