25. Violet
twenty-five
Violet
DAY 21 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 65 TO GO
My experience in the bedroom begins and ends with the short, underwhelming sexual relationship I had with my college boyfriend. I’ve never climaxed from a man’s touch, and I’ve lived with my father my entire life, so I haven’t done a lot of self-exploration either. My orgasms, when I have them, are fast and no-fuss. Get in, get off, get out.
But this… This was the hardest, most bone-shattering climax I’ve ever had. So overwhelming that the orgasms I’ve given myself don’t even warrant the name.
I lay staring at the ceiling as my beautiful boss traces the shape of my collarbone with his tongue.
Oh, God . Chord Davenport made me come.
And I’ve got no clue what to do next. I can feel the hard ridge in his pants pressing against my thigh. His hairline is dark and curled with sweat, and his hands roam my body like they’re only just getting started, but now I’m on the other side of my climax, and I’m a little lost.
Do I peel off his shirt? Shove my hand down his pants? I mean, it’s got to be bad form to accept an orgasm and not return the favor, but this already feels like a lot. And after all the crying and eating and coming, I kind of want to… snuggle?
Chord pushes up on his elbows, hard biceps flexing, and looks down at me with a crooked, cocky smirk. “You look spent.”
I wet my lips, liking the way his eyes drop to my mouth to watch my tongue sweep out. “It’s been a big day.”
“Do you want to go to sleep?”
“Uh.” I glance around the room. It’s dark and probably not unreasonable to turn in, but it seems like the wrong thing to say after what just happened. “I don’t know?”
His blue eyes sparkle with understanding, and he kisses the tip of my nose. “Do you want me to go?”
“No!” I blush at my vehemence and try again. “I mean, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to, so I guess we’ll have a sleepover.” He gives me one last kiss before pushing up and away. “Just give me a minute to change. I’ll be right back.”
Chord slips away, and I take the opportunity to use the bathroom. I clean up a little, brush my teeth, and run a comb through my hair, but no amount of cold water splashed over my cheeks can erase the pink glow of satisfaction. I ball up my damp lingerie and toss it into the hamper, then wrap myself in a towel and dash to the walk-in closet to pick out another set. But after sorting through my extensive collection, nothing feels right. My body is loose and sluggish, and I kind of want to sleep like that too. All curled up under the covers, Chord’s arms around my body, snuggled up in something oversized and comfortable.
I screw up my nose at the old, stained sweats I packed for these kinds of nights. I can’t bring myself to wear them in front of Chord.
I’m still in the closet, wearing nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs, when I hear Chord enter the room.
“You didn’t run away, did you?” he calls.
I laugh and poke my head around the closet door. “No. I’m here. I’m just looking for something to wear to bed. After… that… I feel like sleeping in something a little more comfortable than my, uh, underwear.”
“And you don’t have pajamas?”
“Not in the traditional sense, no.”
Chord frowns in thought, then grins. “Be right back.”
He darts away again, and I wonder what he’s up to as I hold my old tracksuit pants up to triple-check the tear in the bottom and the stain on the knee.
Nope. I can’t do it.
“I’ve got something for you,” Chord calls from just outside the door.
I startle and cover my bare breasts with one arm, though he doesn’t try to come in, and thrust my other hand through the half-open door while wiggling my fingers.
Chord chuckles as he puts something soft in my grip. “Here you go, Wallflower. See how you feel in that.”
It’s clear at first sight what he’s given me. It’s a hockey jersey—and an old one, by the feel of it. I stretch it out, running my fingers over the colors of the Tampa Bay Titans, turning to see Chord’s name and number on the back.
With a little shiver, I slip the shirt over my head and let it fall over my skin. I’m tall, but Chord is much taller, and his shirt is large enough that I feel small inside it. I lift the collar to my nose and inhale. And then, feeling a little self-conscious, I step out of the closet.
Chord sits on the end of the bed, dressed now in cotton shorts and nothing else, and his muscled frame, hard jaw, and dark mop of hair make it impossible to maintain a steady breath. His elbows are on his knees as he stares into the distance, but he straightens as soon as I appear, and the expression on his face is a million kinds of validating.
“It suits you,” he croaks, then clears his throat and gets to his feet, closing the distance and turning me around with two gentle hands on my shoulders. He sweeps the hair off my neck and carefully arranges it to one side before he’s silent for a moment.
“It suits you very well.” His breath on my skin makes me shiver before his mouth meets the curve of my neck. “My name on your back…” His tongue sweeps out between his lips like he’s tasting me. “It almost has me rethinking my decision to let you rest.”
Warmth pools in my cheeks and the cleft of my thighs as I glance over my shoulder. Chord looks hungry. Like he really does want to make me come all over again. I’d probably let him, but before I can say something bold and out of character, he picks up my hand, leads me to the bed, and pulls back the covers.
I slip inside and he pulls the linens up over my body before he walks around and gets in beside me. Chord sprawls out on his back, scoops me against his side, and I settle against the firm warm plane of his chest, wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and his strength.
Safe .
I open my eyes to a bedroom flooded with warm, sweet sunlight and indulge in a long full-body stretch. It’s much later than I’d normally sleep on a Tuesday morning—I can tell by the way the light angles through the tall glass windows—but there’s a reason for it. I’ve never slept that well in my life. So deeply and so soundly with so little worries. Never.
I reach across the bed to touch the reason for my wonderful night, but my arm sweeps over the empty space where Chord should be. I sit up, and my stomach flips at the sticky note on the sheets.
You were too beautiful to wake. Back soon.
With a moan of blissful relief, I roll over to his side of the bed, bury my head in his pillow and breathe him in, but it’s no better than the smell of his jersey on my body. Tampa, he told me, because he has better memories of his time there than he does with Calgary, and he doesn’t have his Fury gear yet. I prefer his Tampa jersey, anyway. It’s so worn and comfy, and I adore the idea that a twenty-something Chord wore this once upon a time, and it was significant enough for him to keep.
I check the time on my phone, and when I see that it’s already ten a.m., I shove aside the conscientious voice that says I should have started work an hour ago. Instead, I throw back the covers and go looking for Chord.
A quick check of the house, the porch, and the pool tells me he’s not only not in my bed but also not anywhere on the property. My assumption that he’d be back soon from his morning workout was obviously wrong.
I check the garage and his sports car is gone, so I return to my bedroom and pick up my phone but stop short of actually calling him. He’s probably gone out to get us breakfast or something, and I don’t want to be that girl , so instead, I swipe to check my messages—I have none—then, out of habit, open my social media account.
I’ve all but given up on making anything of it now that I’m only designing for myself, but when I open the app, I’m stunned to see notifications for nearly five hundred new followers. I flip through my feed to see if I’ve been hacked. No. Everything is the same as it was, but then I notice I’ve been tagged in a dozen or so posts.
I’m too confused to be alarmed, but panic flickers in my pulse as soon as I navigate to one of the images. It’s Chord at The Slippery Tipple, carrying me out of there in his big strong arms. His face is hard and cold, mine is buried against his neck, and there are my boots dangling from his hand. In the background, other customers have their phones raised and pointed at us.
I scroll through to more tags and more pictures. A few more are from that same night—I don’t remember sitting on the bar, but there I am with Chord slipping off my shoes like I’m some sort of drunk Cinderella—but the rest are from our trip to San Francisco. Chord holding my hand on the street. Chord guiding me into his car with a hand on my lower back. Chord looking at me with a small smile on his mouth. Me gazing at him like he hung the moon.
I’m almost afraid to read the comments, but I swipe my thumb against the screen anyway. About halfway down the thread, someone identifies and tags me as the woman in the pictures, and that explains the boost to my follower count.
Maybe I should be happy about this, but I’m not. Something about it feels icky and exposed.
I tap to open my profile info and debate the idea of replacing my bio picture with something anonymous. I’ve almost uploaded a blank white circle when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. I drop my phone on the bed and dash to the window to see Chord’s sports car pull up to the front of the house.
One of the knots in my chest unravels and I smile to myself as Chord gets out of the car. But weirdly, the passenger-side door swings open at the same time, and someone else steps out.
I gasp and spin around, rushing down the hallway and almost tripping on the stairs in my hurry to get to the front door. I fling it open and throw myself through it, skipping down the porch steps and straight into the open arms of my dad.
“Well, that’s a warm welcome, Blossom.” He chuckles before dropping a kiss on my head and tightening his embrace. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmurs against my hair.
I pull back and look at him with a kind of wonder, then concern. When things are good, my father is young and fit and, if not vibrant, he’s at least got energy. But in the three weeks since I last saw him, he’s lost a little weight, and there are shadows under his eyes. It’s not drastic enough that anyone else would notice it, but my relief at seeing him gives way to a pang of sadness—and a little fear.
I offer Chord a grateful smile, but he hangs back with an expression that’s part satisfied and part… entertained. His blue eyes dance as they sweep down my body and back up again, which is when I realize I’m standing in the driveway, ignoring the sharp stabs of stones underneath my bare feet because I’m so happy to see my dad—and I’m wearing nothing but Chord’s jersey.
If it were possible to self-combust from embarrassment, this would be the moment for it to happen. Every inch of my body bursts with shame, and I tug at the hem of the shirt to try and give it more length. When that doesn’t work, I shift from foot to foot and attempt to smooth my bed hair.
Dad rubs his jaw to hide a frown just as Chord shakes his head and closes the door to the car.
“Perhaps we should have called first,” Dad says. “Given you a chance to, ah… freshen up.”
“No, it’s okay. I, um…”
I throw a pleading glance toward Chord, and he moves just close enough to keep a respectable distance. I don’t know where to look—at Chord, at my dad—so I settle on somewhere awkward between the two.
“I thought you and your dad could catch up over a cup of coffee before I take him around to his accommodation,” Chord explains.
That gets my attention. “His accommodation?”
“Yeah.” Chord gives Dad a friendly nod, which he returns with an appreciation and humility that breaks my heart. “I asked Mr. James—I mean, Luke—if he might have some time to help me on the ranch this summer. Those fences are taking a lot longer than I expected, and with team training kicking off this week, I’ll feel better knowing that the work is getting done even when I can’t be out there doing it myself. Charlie was able to find an empty cabin for a few weeks at least, and Luke mentioned he was available to stay a while.”
Dad scratches an eyebrow and tilts his head so he’s not looking straight at the daughter wearing the rich and famous hockey player’s jersey and not much else. “Chord mentioned there might be other things that need doing. Handyman-type things here and there, and I didn’t have anything urgent keeping me at home. You don’t mind your old man hanging around for a few weeks, do you, Blossom? I promise not to get in your way. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
“No! I love the idea. You’ll be a huge help. Let’s go inside and talk about it, and then you can get settled in.”
I grab Dad’s hand and blink away the sting in my eyes as I throw Chord a look of gratitude. Thank you , I mouth. He responds with a straight-faced wink that makes me giddy.
“Luke,” Chord says. “You go on in and make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is easy to find—follow the hallway, and you can’t miss it—and Violet will be in soon. I just need to have a word with her first.”
I squeeze Dad’s hand. “I won’t be long.”
Dad disappears inside the house, and I pull the door almost closed to give me and Chord a little privacy. He stands with his arms crossed and a cocky twist to his lips, and unashamedly drags his gaze down my body, lingering on the spot where his jersey meets my thighs.
“You’re fucking stunning, Wallflower.”
I blush and look around even as my heart flies with pleasure. “ Chord .”
He grins and moves closer, then snakes his arms around my waist to pull me against him for a soft, lingering kiss.
I should pinch myself to make sure this is real, but if it isn’t, then I don’t want to wake up. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I don’t want to see you cry,” he says as if he thinks he has the power to protect me from heartbreak. The stupid thing is, I believe he might. “Whatever you need, whatever you want, it’s yours.”
“Thank you.”
I offer my lips, and he takes them again in a kiss a little less gentle, a little more needy.
Chord skates his palms over my arms. “Before you go inside, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Not good. Not bad.” He smiles tightly, but his lips have a sardonic twist to them. “Just a fact of life when you’re spending time with the hottest player in the NHL.”
He’s not usually so self-deprecating, and I don’t like it. “Is this about the pictures?”
His eyebrows shoot upward. “You know about them?”
“Yes. I woke up to a dozen social media tags attached to pictures of us at The Slippery Tipple and in the city—plus five hundred new followers.”
“Okay. Interesting.” Chord nods slowly as he slides his hands around my waist, but there’s a crease between his brows that wasn’t there before. “I know it’s too early to put any labels on us… right?”
I force myself to meet his earnest gaze. Like the way we danced, like our first kiss, like the way he touched me last night, Chord knows how to lead, so I agree with him even though I’m not sure I want to. “Right.”
His throat works as his grip tightens on my hips. “So, we have to work this out with the world watching. Does that bother you?”
“I mean, it’s uncomfortable and weird…” The line on his forehead grows deeper and I stop myself before I can admit that I am, in fact, a little troubled. “Why? Does it bother you?”
He hesitates. “No, but I’m used to it. It’s part of the job.”
“Are you sure?” I rub my thumb over the line on his forehead. “I bet there are lots of lousy things that are part of the job, but they can still upset you.”
Chord presses his lips together as focus turns inward. “At the risk of sounding like a poor, rich professional athlete, the truth is that dating in the public eye hasn’t worked out well for me. I seem to attract either women who see hockey and money and throw themselves at me or women who see hockey and money and run in the opposite direction.” His hands move in slow circles over my lower back, as if by soothing me, he can soothe himself. “I know you’re not the first kind, and I’m hoping like hell you’re not the latter.”
I look at Chord—really look, so he knows I mean this—but still, his eyes are a little guarded.
“Well, here’s the thing.” I skate my hands up over his arms, following the carved lines of his muscles from wrist to shoulders, then cup his face. “When I look at you, I don’t see hockey, and I don’t see money. I don’t see the fame or any of those things that might have burned you in the past. I see a good man with a big heart. I see you and like you, despite—not because of—all those other things.”
Chord’s shoulders relax, and he pulls me close so he can rest his chin on the top of my head. “So, you think you’ll be okay standing with me in the spotlight?”
“Next to you?” I twine my arms around his neck and press myself against him. “I’ll be okay anywhere.”