Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
MAISIE
Did I actually have sex with Wilder… again? Or was it just a hot, extremely vivid fever dream?
It’s the very first thought in my head when I peel my eyes open to bright, warm sunlight streaming through the window of my bedroom.
The answer to that question is immediately answered when I shift beneath the comforter and a dull, oddly delicious ache twinges between my legs.
I’m sore everywhere. Literally, my hips, my ass, my breasts. All places that he touched, and kissed, and sucked.
The memory of it all comes rushing back, and I bite back a smile. Without a doubt, so beyond worth a little soreness.
Last night was perfect.
After I all but collapsed on top of Wilder, completely spineless after the three orgasms he gave me, he carried me to my bed and then gently took care of me.
It was so unexpected, even in my blissed-out haze, I was taken by surprise.
He got a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaned me. After using his finger to push his cum back inside me, of course.
Which was ungodly hot. I’ve always thought that I had a breeding kink, minus the actual breeding, but last night confirmed it.
Still, it was honestly the last thing I thought he would want to do. Take care of me after hard, rough sex. He didn’t have to carry me to bed, or clean me, or lean down and press a lingering kiss to my lips before tucking my blankets around me and leaving.
Thinking of it makes my already tender core throb, and I exhale, my lips still spread with a smile that I can’t seem to shake.
I throw the covers off and grab a hair clip from my nightstand, twisting my hair up as I walk to the kitchen.
In the haste of trying to fuck his brains out, or the other way around, the last thing on my mind was dinner and whatever mess we had left behind.
Except as I look around my apartment, all of the mess that I remember being here… is gone.
No takeout containers, no piles of fortune cookies. No half-empty glasses on the coffee table.
Nothing.
My brow furrows, and I look down at my feet, where Sebastian is winding himself between my legs, begging for attention with a series of steady meows, so I reach down to scratch his fluffy head.
“Good morning, handsome. You didn’t clean all of this up yourself, did you?” I giggle when he looks at me like he’s even wondering why I’m talking to a cat.
I’m riding a high this morning that not even my slightly grumpy, attention-hogging furball child is going to take away.
He follows me into the kitchen because of course, it’s breakfast time for him, but before I can get to the cabinet where I keep his food, I notice a piece of paper on the counter next to a bottle of sweet tea and what looks like two pain relievers.
I look down at Sebastian, who gives me yet another deadpanned expression before looking back at the piece of paper on the counter. Crossing the kitchen, I pick it up and read.
Take these. It’ll help with the soreness.
And don’t even fucking think about being a brat, rolling your eyes, and ignoring me.
We’ve established what happens if you do.
My stomach flips, a smile tearing at my lips, but I keep reading.
I picked up everything from last night because your fat ass cat kept trying to get into it, and I didn’t want you to have to clean it up today.
I also fed it because it kept following me around your apartment and meowing so goddamn loud that I thought it would wake you up.
Take the pills, Maisie.
Coach
As soon as I finish reading it, I immediately read it again.
Okay, I’m not going to overanalyze this.
So what… he left a note.
With my favorite drink because he remembered. Or maybe that was a coincidence? Totally could be coincidence.
And he picked up my apartment and fed Sebastian.
Even though I know how much he is not a fan of my cat.
God, why is my heart galloping in my chest like this?
If it’s not a big deal, if it means nothing, then why does it feel like I’m a schoolgirl with a crush who is giddy over a simple, meaningless interaction? Don’t read into this, Maisie.
I take the pills. Not just because he told me to, but because he’s right—I am incredibly sore. And because when I see him again, I need to be able to have three orgasms in a row again.
Clearly, I’m turning into an addict, and I’ve only had sex two freaking times.
Shit.
I head for the bathroom and turn on the shower to a stifling hot temperature, then pull off the T-shirt that Wilder apparently put me in last night.
I should text him, right?
Chewing my lip, I contemplate it. Yes. Obviously, I should text him just to say thank you for the ibuprofen. And for cleaning up. And for feeding Sebastian.
Okay, yes.
I grab my phone from my nightstand and send a quick, very casual message.
Maisie: Thanks for the medicine… and the
I’ve already hit Send when I realize how stupid that actually probably sounded.
Thanks for the dick?
That’s the message that I thought would be a great way to say thank you for being attentive when I know it’s the exact opposite of who he is.
This callous, seemingly indifferent man took care of me. It’s a complete conundrum to his personality.
And instead, I tell him…
Thanks for the dick.
Great. Lovely. Fantastic.
In my defense, I don’t want to come off as this clingy, naive girl. So, I need to keep things light and breezy.
No, yeah, that still doesn’t make any sense.
I groan out loud, “My God, Maisie. You’ve been dick-matized.”
Dots dance on the screen inside the thread, and my heart dips, waiting for his response.
When it finally comes through, I almost drop my phone when a giggle bursts out of me.
Coach: You’re welcome for taking care of your pussy.
Coach: Both of them.
Maisie: Did you… just make a… joke?
Coach: I wasn’t joking.
Maisie: Hm. I might need you to take care of it again, asap.
Coach: Got a game tonight, but I can come over tomorrow if you’re free.
Maisie: I’m so freaking free.
I erase it before I can send yet another stupid message.
Maisie: I get out of class at 4:30. Dinner at my place again?
Coach:
Good God, this man texts like a grandpa.
Maisie: Good luck tonight, Coach
Coach: Thx.
Coach: Take more meds later.
Maisie: Yes, sir.
Coach:
I don’t hear from Wilder again, but I did watch as the Hellcats won their game against Mississippi State last night. I sent him a text congratulating him on the win.
It’s slightly funny that I used to not care at all about hockey, but now, I’m watching games, showing up at the arena, and checking scores. And having hot, sweaty, forbidden sex with the coach.
Apparently, all it took to pique my interest was the latter part of that.
He’s supposed to come over for dinner tonight, but I haven’t heard back from him yet on when he’s coming over, and it’s almost two o’clock.
Even though I’m worried about sounding… I don’t know, overeager… I send him a text anyways.
Maisie: Still good for dinner tonight?
I’m walking into my library sciences class as I do, so I put my phone away in my bag so I can focus on the lecture. The one thing I can’t do is let my GPA fall because I’m… preoccupied.
Everything takes a back burner when it comes to getting my degree and going to grad school. Becoming a school librarian is my lifelong dream, so even hot coaches have to come second.
That’s why I don’t see his response until I’m walking out of class an hour later.
Coach: Rain check. I’m sick as shit. Got some kind of bug at the game last night, I guess.
Shit. Disappointing, but I also hope he’s okay.
I quickly respond.
Maisie: Oh no Do you need anything? Anything I can do to help?
He doesn’t respond to the text for the rest of the afternoon, even after I’m done with classes and back at my apartment, my books spread over the coffee table in the living room, my brain desperately trying not to recall what happened in this very spot last night.
I need to focus. But I’m failing miserably at that.
Not just because I’m thinking about last night, but because I’m worried about him.
I hate being sick. Especially now that my parents aren’t around all the time anymore, and I have to take care of myself like a sad, miserable adult.
Swiping my phone off the table, I send a text to Lennon with the thought that just popped into my head.
Maisie: Is it clingy if a guy is sick and you bring him soup? Just to be nice?
Lennon: And by a guy, you mean your coach, right?
Lennon: And just to be clear soup as in…
Lennon: Vegetable? Or like something different?
Maisie: Saint has officially corrupted your sweet little mind, Len. Yes, like actual soup. Not soup.
Lennon: k. Yeah that got weird quick HAHA
Lennon: It’s not clingy at all. Honestly, he’d probably appreciate it if he’s feeling really bad.
Maisie: So I should definitely make him soup and show up at his apartment, right? Just so we’re clear.
Lennon: For sure. Be safe, love you byeeeee
My mom makes the best chicken noodle soup in the entire world, and thankfully, I learned how to make it a long time ago for my little brothers. Fortunately, I have all the ingredients already, so I’m able to throw it together on the stove in just over an hour.
Thirty minutes later, I’m parking in front of Wilder’s apartment building.
His building, for lack of a better word, is in a very sketchy part of town. It’s not a place I generally brave solo as a woman, especially not in the dark, but the sun has already set by the time I get there, so I have no choice.
I double-click the lock on the Beetle and walk inside, juggling the soup, a book I picked up for him while I was working in the library the other day, and my bag.
Inside the dingy lobby, there’s a group of men loitering, and as I pass by, they pause, their eyes drifting over me from head to toe, leering at me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Hastily, I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor and all but sprint to Wilder’s apartment.