Chapter 9 Savannah
NINE
SAVANNAH
My heart pounds as I try to maintain a straight face.
How in the fuck does Sutton ask these things and not feel completely exposed?
I shouldn’t care what this man thinks. I shouldn’t care what his answer is. I’m doing this for the column. It’s an experiment. And I’m doing it to help my friend understand what not to do.
But the thing is, when I’m uttering words that are guaranteed to make a man walk away, I wish I wasn’t uttering them to a man I think I’d like to stay.
Then again, in this moment, I get how Sutton feels. Vulnerable and hopeful. God, it’s awful. Why would anyone willingly put themselves in this position?
Downstairs, dressed up, channeling the sexy vixen who owned the attention of everyone in that room. That is my scene.
Teasing a man by flirting with another woman? Totally my comfort level.
Telling a man I’ve never been loved? That was my first mistake. The first sign that I should have bolted. Or dragged one of the players into a closet instead.
I should be fucking a guy in some room in this house, preparing to walk away, knowing I have a story for tomorrow. The perfect title too. First mistake: Don’t forget to Play Hard to Get. Or Don’t Fall for the Guy You Fuck on the First Night.
The story could write itself. We all know that rule.
Asking a guy I actually might like if he wants to have kids while half naked and lying in bed with him? Yeah, no, this is new territory for me.
The strangest thing is that as my stomach flips in anticipation, as I wait for his freaked-out response, I can’t help but wonder what my own answer would be. Do I want kids?
Two hours ago, I would have said that I’ve never considered it. It wasn’t an absolutely not. I just never put real thought into it.
Kids need stability. A parent who has their shit together. A partner, maybe; a career, definitely.
A woman who’ll lose her job and her apartment if she doesn’t do something drastic like ask the hottest guy ever if he wants to have kids is not the kind of person who is ready for that kind of responsibility.
“Do I want kids?” Camden echoes, his expression unreadable.
I nod, barely keeping that straight face in place.
He runs his hand through his short hair, probably trying to figure out how the fuck to get me out of his bed and back down to the party. “Um.” He shrugs. “I used to.”
“What?” It’s the only word my scrambled brain can come up with.
His blue eyes cut to mine and soften as he takes me in. “I always figured I’d play in the NHL, meet a girl like my friends did, and eventually retire and start a family. I’d have a whole other life waiting for me after hockey.”
I’d like to say it’s the journalist in me that continues to prod, but the curiosity is genuine. “But that didn’t happen?”
His eyes fall shut and he rests his head against the headboard. “Nope.”
“Why?”
“I was a fuck boy who couldn’t get out of my own way.” His lashes flutter open and his eyes dart to mine, but his head remains tipped back. “Guess I figured if I stopped trying, it wouldn’t hurt so much if no one chose me.”
The words speak to me at a cellular level. My constant use of sarcasm to deflect deep emotions. My use of sex to avoid real connection.
When I adjust myself, moving to straddle him, and press a hand to his chest, it’s not to distract him, or myself, with sex. “Did it work?”
“Hmm?” His focus drifts to my lips and his palms move to my bare thighs.
“Did losing out on what you wanted hurt less when you stopped trying?” I clarify.
He shakes his head, his attention darting away.
“Does it hurt right now?” I whisper, inching closer.
“Nothing hurts when I look at you.” His eyes are on me again, his words strangled, like he doesn’t want to believe them yet can’t stop himself from saying them.
It’s odd, because I feel the same way.
“I bet it would be even better if you kissed me,” I prod softly, bringing my face closer to his.
One side of his mouth slants up. “Oh yeah?”
I nod.
He slides those warm, callused palms up my thighs and tilts his head so his mouth is lifted.
Rather than wait for him to make the move, I go for it. The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Like we’re learning one another. Introducing ourselves.
His fingers dig into my thighs. The slight pain only makes the moment hotter. When I roll my hips, his chest rattles with a deep groan. Pulling back, he blows out an unsteady breath and assesses me.
What I see in the depths of those blues can’t be explained. Longing, desire, acknowledgment, acceptance.
I’m still processing it all when he brings a hand to my neck and presses a finger to my pulse point. I’m sure the rhythm is scattered and wild. It’s how I feel. Desperate.
He watches me, eyes roaming, breathing deeply. “I’m going to devour you, baby girl.”
“Please,” I whimper, my core fluttering.
Then his mouth is on mine again, his tongue threading between my lips, his taste embedded in me, and I know I’ll never be the same.