18. Winona #2
He laughs an amused laugh and his eyes crinkle.
I run my hand down his jaw, indulging in the feel of his stubble on my hand.
“You like that?” he asks.
“Mm hmm.”
“Me unshaven?”
“I like both—stubble and clean-shaven,” I tell him. “All of it. All of you.”
He smiles down at me. “I like you, Winona. All of you.”
His eyes grow heavy and seductive.
“Is this your Nike face?” I ask.
“What?”
“You know?” I ask, drawing a line with my finger across his brow, running it over his eyelids, causing each to shut at my approach, dragging my fingertip down to his pouty mouth where he playfully nips at me.
“Your Nike face. Like, Hey, beautiful women and all the bros out there, buy these shoes because I’m Declan O’Connell. ”
I can’t help myself. I’m light as corn silk blowing in a fall breeze. Happy. I’m so very happy.
“No,” he says, taking his free hand and poking into my side until I laugh and bend toward his hand, grabbing at him to stop him from tickling me. “It’s my I want to kiss you face.”
“Well,” I say, tracing my pointer over his lips. “It makes me want to buy whatever you’re selling. Give me all the Nikes.”
He chuckles and then his lips are on mine.
Nipping first, playful and free. I’ve never joked with a man when he was kissing me.
Never poked fun in the heat of the moment.
But with him, it feels natural—easy. Declan’s kiss goes from light and playful to serious and tender, so heartfelt I could shed tears.
How has he come to mean so much to me in such a short time? I know him. And I can’t get enough of him.
I lose myself in the feel of him. His strong arms and back, the way he’s hovering over me, the sounds he makes as he kisses me. My hands rove over him, through his hair, across his never-ending shoulders, down his back.
He drags our kiss on, our mouths dancing. Time and space blur. Then he softly leaves one more kiss on my lips and pulls away, breathless, a look of awe in his eyes.
I sigh a contented sigh. He falls back onto his pillow and tugs me with him. I’m careful not to knock his leg—which he seems to have forgotten. I curl myself around Declan, snuggling in and allowing myself to fall just a little bit for him.
He called me unexpected. I don’t think he’s right. People can see me coming a mile away. I’m quirky and forthright, funny and thoughtful. What you see is what you get.
Declan, though? He’s layers of hidden goodness. Warmth and vulnerability. Intensity. So attentive, especially when you think he isn’t noticing much. I run my hand in lazy circles over his shoulder and down his bicep.
I yawn lightly. The rain turns the tall glass windows into water features, the gentle rush settling me deeper into Declan’s embrace. His heart beats under my cheek, a steady thrum. The lazy strokes of his hand down my hair soothing me to the point of drowsy contentment.
I lift my head, staring down into his eyes. “Weeks?”
“Weeks,” he nods softly.
I shake my head in disbelief and snuggle down into his arms again.
“I had no idea,” I murmur into his chest.
“I fought it at first,” he says. “Didn’t think you wanted me.”
“Oh, I wanted you,” I tell him. “But I couldn’t imagine you wanting me. I would have kept fighting my feelings if you hadn’t pulled your Nike face on me.”
“Please, stop calling it that.” His chest rumbles with his laughter.
He says that, but I can tell he loves my teasing.
“Would you rather I call it your Doritos face?”
“I’d rather,” he says, swiftly tucking his arm around me and flipping us in one fluid motion so he’s looming over me with a playful smirk on his face. “You call it my I want to kiss Winona face.”
“And should I call it that, say … at lunch with the team?”
He chuckles, brushing the tip of his nose over mine. “You should not be talking about my face when the team is around. My face is between you and me.”
“Your face is too far away,” I say. And he solves that problem by bridging the distance with another kiss I feel from my head to my toes.
“Your ankle,” I say when he pulls back.
“I’m good.”
“You need to get some rest. I think the rain has died down enough. I should go.”
“Stay here,” he encourages me. “I’ve got a jersey you can sleep in, and yoga pants. Remember?”
“You just want an excuse to put me in your jersey,” I tease him.
“You’re not wrong.”
I smile at that.
He tugs me in and I savor the feel of his arm wrapping around me.
My eyes are starting to drift shut when a clunking noise echoes through the house followed by whirring sounds and the lights flickering on. Our warm, yellow ambiance is bathed in full light without notice.
“That means the elevator works again,” I tell him. “For a moment, I thought we were going to be stuck in the one-bed trope.”
“One-bed trope?”
I explain the way couples in romance stories end up in situations where there’s only one bed.
“Just my luck,” he says. “The lights had to come on.”
Then he winks at me, and this time, it’s not weird like that wink he gave me during the game. I feel this wink travel through me—laced with intention and promise.
“I’ll stay,” I say. “As long as you don’t mind.”
“I like it when you’re here,” he says, pushing himself to standing using both arms and one leg.
He maneuvers over to his crutches and then he looks up at me with an expression that’s so vulnerable and candid. “The house gets too quiet sometimes. I like when you’re here.”
My throat constricts and I swallow. I always wondered whether he gets lonely.
Declan moves through the room, heading for the elevator. He returns as promised with a jersey, some yoga pants, a toothbrush and toothpaste.
I retreat into the guest bedroom, staring at the bed where I dozed off earlier. The imprint of my body is still rumpled into the bedding.
That was only hours ago. But it feels like a lifetime.
Declan kissed me.
I’m not the same woman who rested in that bed. Now I’m the woman Declan kissed by firelight. The one he’s been longing to kiss for weeks.
I brush my teeth and pull on the jersey, tug on the yoga pants, and then I return to the main room to say goodnight.
Declan’s on the sofa with his leg out.
“Did you overdo it?” I ask him.
“Nah. I’ll take an Advil and get some rest. It’s fine.”
His eyes rove over me in his jersey, a possessive look in his gaze. “Turn around, Winona. I want to see my name on your back.”
“Please,” I say, taunting him on purpose.
“Turn around, please,” he says. And then he adds an exaggerated caveman-like grunt for my benefit.
I crack up. But inwardly, I’m giddy. Declan wants to see his name on my back.
I pop my hands on my hips as if I’m not going to comply with his request.
He raises his brows.
I smile, taking my hair, gathering it, tossing it over one shoulder and running my hands over it to secure it there. Then I slowly turn, raising my arms in the air and swaying my hips once my back is toward him. “O’Connell. You happy?”
“Happy doesn’t begin to describe it,” he says.
I turn around and my flirtiness dies when my eyes meet his intense gaze.
“I like seeing you in my jersey,” he says. “Will you wear it to a game? When I’m back on the field?”
“I will,” I promise him.
But the words come with a rush of questions: What are we? Where is this heading? How does this work when life goes back to normal?
All of those thoughts evaporate when Declan says, “Come here, Winona,” in his soft, private, late-hours voice. He smiles a playful smile and adds, “Please.”
I don’t even try to resist him. I walk to the couch and bend down, initiating our kiss this time. He cups my face like I’m precious—fragile, even.
And maybe I am.
He definitely has the power to shatter me.
“Humpty Dumpty,” I mutter into his mouth in the middle of our kiss.
“What?” he asks, pulling back.
“Nothing,” I say, placing another soft kiss on his lips and running my hands through his hair.
Humpty Dumpty.
Well, I plan to enjoy my time on the wall.