Chapter 24
KENDALL
Iwake up to the sun rising and immediately feel the nervous energy inside me. I don’t know when I’ll see Patterson again. He’s traveling this week, and the closer we get to the playoffs, the more important each game becomes.
Now that I’ve finished my commissions and chosen my action shots for the charity auction, traveling with the team is an unnecessary expense.
Tomorrow, I’ll deliver the player portraits, with a promise of game plays delivered by the first of May. I have a little more than a month, but I only need a few days to finish them. I’m ahead of schedule, and today, I’m inspired to paint for myself. It’s not something I’ve done in … years.
I crank up some oldies and grab my brushes and paints.
I don’t know how to register the feeling that swirls inside me as I squeeze oils onto my palette.
My brush moves without thinking about where it’s going.
By the time the light outside my window shifts from morning to afternoon, I’ve created something I didn’t intend to make.
Two bodies press together with faces hidden in shadow.
His strong, veiny hands gripping my hips as the arch of my back curves against his broad chest. I’ve captured the way his fingers dig into my soft flesh, the tension in his forearms, the way my body melts against his, like I belong there.
The colors are warm and dark—amber and bronze, mixed with deep burgundy where our skin meets.
“Painted you like one of my French girls,” I say with a laugh.
I didn’t plan to paint us. I didn’t intentionally think about him, but he’s always on my mind. My hands knew what to create, like he’s my muscle memory. This is complete surrender.
I set the canvas aside and tell myself it’s nothing. Just inspiration.
That night, I pull on his gray shirt before bed because it still smells like him, and I’m not above admitting that to myself. My phone vibrates.
Patterson
I smile at the ceiling, wishing he were in the city.
Kendall
Patterson
I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand.
Friday morning, I put on my professional face and deliver the portraits to the facility. The owner shakes my hand in the conference room while my father watches from the doorway, arms crossed, beaming like I won an Olympic medal. Right after, he’s traveling to meet the team for tomorrow’s game.
“These are extraordinary,” the owner says, flipping through the portfolio. “The way you’ve captured each player’s personality. Fierce. Unapologetic. The way you painted Patterson. It’s like there’s something in his eyes.”
I keep my expression neutral. “He was challenging.”
“Seems you rose to the challenge.” He closes the portfolio. “I’m looking forward to the auction pieces.”
My father walks me out, his hand warm on my shoulder, and I relax.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart. You’ve done incredible work.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He studies my face. “You seem happier.”
“I am,” I tell him.
“Because of Cross?” he asks, and I almost forget about the lie.
“Yeah,” I say with a grin, not confirming which Cross, and I escape before he can ask more questions.
When I make it back to my apartment, I set up a fresh canvas.
This one is his mouth pressed against my throat.
I don’t plan it out, and I allow my hand to move.
Suddenly, I’m mixing the exact shade of his lips, the shadow of his jaw, the way my head tilts back to give him access.
I paint until the light fades and my shoulders ache, and when I step back, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
That’s two explicit paintings I’ve created that have made me blush. It’s raw and real.
I should stop and paint something else. Anything else. But … I can’t.
On Saturday, I wake up reaching for a body that isn’t there. My hand finds cold sheets, and for a moment, I forget where I am, forget that he’s in Detroit, and I’m alone in my apartment, surrounded by evidence of how far gone I actually am.
The third painting comes before coffee.
I don’t even fight it this time. I set up the canvas in my underwear and his gray T-shirt and let my hands do what they want.
Two figures tangled in sheets with limbs overlapping in ways that look desperate, needy, like neither one can get close enough.
I know exactly which night this is from.
I remember the way he whispered my name against my shoulder, how his hands wouldn’t stop moving across my skin.
I wanted to fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear.
By noon, there’s a fourth canvas drying by the window. They’re rushed, raw, but complete. I glance at the abstract painting of my thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossed at the small of his back. More faceless paintings, but so unmistakably us.
By late afternoon, there’s one of his hands pinning my wrists above my head. I’ve perfected the arch of my spine.
I step back and look at what I’ve created. A series is scattered around my living room like a confession I didn’t mean to make. It’s art.
These intense emotions should be locked away until Patterson has secured his contract renewal. Instead, I sit on my couch, surrounded by the evidence of my obsession, wondering what I’d name this if it were in a gallery.
Secret Lover.
The thought makes me smile. Patterson’s always been a good subject.
Saturday night, I turn on the Angels game while I eat cold leftover pizza. The canvases watch me from every corner of my place while I watch him skate across the screen.
Detroit’s defenseman checks Patterson into the boards, and I’m on my feet before I realize I even moved.
My heart slams hard as I watch him shake it off.
My hands are clenched into fists. Two minutes later, he scores on a breakaway, and I’m screaming at my television like I’ve lost my mind.
The camera catches his face as his teammates pile on him, and I can see the cockiness radiating through the screen. He blows kisses to the audience.
After an intense game, the Angels win, and I sit through the postgame interviews to see him.
He’s sweaty and grinning and gives the usual answers about team effort and staying focused.
When the reporter asks about his plans for his off day tomorrow, he smirks and says he’s got something to take care of back in New York.
“Your girlfriend?” she asks.
He chuckles. “Yeah, something like that. Miss you,” he says into the camera.
And my heart actually stops.
I cannot believe he said that on national television. To know he’s thinking about me while he’s hundreds of miles away affects me more than I want to admit. More proof that I’m falling for Patterson Cross. I’m losing control.
I turn off the TV, set my plate on the coffee table, and then mindlessly watch recap videos.
An hour later, my phone rings, and I smile when I see Chef pop up.
“Hey, babe.” Patterson’s voice is smug.
“Ahh, calling your girlfriend? How is she?”
“You tell me,” he says. “Have a good day?”
“Actually, yes. Just watched my favorite hockey team win an important game. Screamed at the top of my lungs when Kowalski checked the MVP, but it all worked out.”
“So, what did you think?” he asks.
“Your second assist was sloppy.”
He laughs, surprised but also delighted. “Excuse me? I threaded that pass through two defenders who happen to be the best in the fucking league.”
“Sure, you somehow pulled it off, but you also hesitated half a second too long, Cross. Kowalski almost picked it off.”
“But he didn’t.” His voice drops lower. “What else did you notice?”
“Your interview. Pattycakes, you can’t get too lovey-dovey. No couple shit publicly,” I say.
“Shut the hell up. I’ll do whatever I want. No one knows. But you.”
I press my thighs together. “You’ve missed me?”
“Seriously?” He laughs. “It’s only been four days without you, and it’s making me fucking crazy. You’re all I think about. But then again, I know you’ve been thinking about me too.”
“Really? That’s so incredibly cocky of you to assume.”
“Tell me I’m lying.” I hear him shifting, sheets rustling. “To my face. FaceTime me, Kendall.”
“Pfft.”
“I need to see you try to lie to me.” His voice goes lower. “Pretty fucking please?”
That’s all it takes for me to switch the call over. His chiseled jaw and high cheekbones fill my screen. He’s shirtless, sitting against the stark white W hotel pillows, one arm behind his head, and his eyes sparkle when he sees me. The scruff on his face is so damn sexy.
“There she is.” He gives me a half-smile that nearly makes me melt. “Wait, are you wearing my shirt?”
“Mmm.” I glance down. “Looks like I am.” I reach for it and take it off, tossing it on the floor. I sit back on the couch, breasts exposed.
“Let me see you,” he mutters, keeping his voice low. His jaw tightens as I lower the camera. “Fuck.” He exhales. “Gorgeous.”
“I was thinking the same,” I whisper.
“Look what you do to me.” He pushes the sheets down, and I see he’s already hard, his hand wrapped around himself.
“Damn,” I whisper, watching him stroke himself. My body burns hot. “I need you.”
“I know.” His hand moves slowly. “Join me.”
I slide my fingers down and angle the phone down so he can see my hand moving into my underwear. I shimmy out of them, and the sound he makes is almost pained.
“Happy?” I ask, breathing hard.
“So fucking happy.” His hand moves faster on his cock. “You’re glistening. Is that all for me?”
“I’ve been thinking about you nonstop,” I say, the orgasm building too quickly.
“I’m going to ruin you when I get home. I’m going to spread you out on your bed and lick you until you’re begging me to stop, and then I’m going to fuck you so hard that you feel me for days.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time.” I’m breathing harder now.
“Two fingers, sweetheart. Pretend it’s me.”
I do as he said and gasp at the stretch. It’s not enough, not even close to how he fills me, but the way he’s watching makes everything more intense.
“Deeper. You know you want more.”
I fuck myself harder, my palm grinding against my clit with every thrust. He’s stroking himself in the same rhythm, matching me.
“I need you.” His voice is strained.
“I haven’t been able to focus on anything else. I can’t stop thinking about you. About us,” I confess.
“As soon as the plane lands on Monday, I’m coming straight to you.” He’s close—I can tell by the way his abs tense. “Look at me. I want to see you lose yourself.”
I force my eyes to the screen and meet his gaze, and the intensity there pushes me right to the edge.
My back arches, and my mouth falls open.
I fall apart with his name on my lips, my whole body shaking as he watches me.
Seconds later, he’s groaning, his cock pulsing and shooting hot strands from the tip.
We’re gasping and staring at each other.
I tilt my head, smile, and cover my face with my hand. “That’s the first time I’ve ever done that.”
“Glad we can still have some firsts,” he says and pauses like he wants to say something more. “Tomorrow, I want you to do me a favor.”
“Anything,” I tell him, blinking up at him.
“Come at least five times.”
“Pattycakes, that’s impossible.”
“Okay, then make it ten. Text me each time you do. Double digits.”
“I’ll be exhausted.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck.” His voice drops. “It won’t be anything compared to what I’m going to do to you when I’m back in town.”
“You’re serious.”
“Ten times, Kendall. Think about me each time. You understand?”
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, squeezing my thighs together. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, baby doll. Do. Treat yourself.” His voice softens a little. “I’ll be checking my phone.”
“You have practice.”
“And?”
I smile because I’m still on cloud nine. “Okay. Good night, Pattycakes.”
“Good night, Ken Doll.” He smiles.
“Dream about me, Pattycakes,” I tell him.
“I always do. Even when I’m awake.”
The call ends, and I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. I can still hear the sound of his voice in my ear and feel the ghost of pleasure between my thighs.
Tomorrow, I’m going to spend the entire day doing what he asked. He’ll be thinking about me between drills and team meetings and whatever else he has to do. Even though he’s hundreds of miles away, he has me wrapped around his finger.
I reach down and pull his shirt back on, letting the fabric settle against my skin. It smells like him—everything does now.
Before going to my bedroom, I glance back at the canvases that look like confessions.
He unlocked the cage and set me free. I’ll never be the same.