Chapter 13 #4
Then he looked at me sitting there on the end of my bed, flushed, mouth swollen, hair messy from his hands, and the smugness returned full force.
His eyes darkened instantly, and the room went hot all over again. For one reckless second, I thought he was going to step back between my legs and prove it.
Instead, he grabbed my shorts from the floor and slid them up my legs like he had not just ruined my life with his mouth, then looked at me with a smirk.
He looked perfectly composed again.
Mostly.
Except for the rough edge in his breathing and the bulge in his jeans.
I slid off the bed on legs that absolutely betrayed me the second my feet hit the floor.
Cade caught my waist before I could wobble, his palm firm and hot through my tank.
“Easy.”
“Do not say easy to me right now.”
His smile brushed the side of my hair as he leaned close enough that his breath touched my ear. “We gotta go, Pip.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I know.”
“Then put your libido away.”
My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
His grin cut deep enough for dimples. “You heard me.”
“You started this.”
“And I’ll finish it later if you behave.”
I grabbed my bag from the kitchen, shoved the project notebook inside, and tried to smooth my hair in the microwave reflection while he stood behind me looking entirely too satisfied with himself.
“This changes nothing,” I said.
Cade’s eyes met mine in the reflection.
“Sure, Pip.”
I turned and pointed at him. “I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“Physical. Benefits. No feelings.”
“Got it.”
“You’re still doing it though.”
His mouth tilted slowly. “It’s natural with us. Can’t be stopped.”
My pulse jumped.
He stepped closer, stealing one last quick kiss from my mouth before I could argue, hard enough to shut me up and short enough to leave me furious when he pulled away.
“Come on,” he said, reaching around me to grab the potatoes from the counter. “Before I make us late on purpose.”
I stood there for one second, staring after him while my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest.
Then I followed him out, telling myself this was fine.
And Cade, carrying potatoes to his Range Rover like he hadn’t just put me into a full identity crisis, looked calm enough to let me believe it.
Almost.
14
Cade
Pip sat relaxed in the passenger seat beside me with one leg folded slightly beneath her while sunlight poured through the windshield across her bare thighs, bare enough that I had to keep reminding myself I was driving a vehicle and not actively trying to ruin both our lives before noon.
Every few minutes, she reached over and stole sips from my iced coffee instead of drinking her own like some tiny criminal with absolutely no boundaries.
I let her.
Of course I let her.
At this point, she could probably take half my closet, my coffee, my time, and my ability to think straight, then smile at me like she had done nothing wrong, and I’d just sit there letting it happen like a man who had never once heard the phrase self-preservation.
Which was irritating.
Because I wasn’t usually that guy.
I didn’t drift. I didn’t stumble into things.
I moved with intent, and every decision I made had structure behind it.
Hockey taught me that early. You didn’t survive on instinct alone.
You survived by reading the ice, anticipating pressure, knowing when to hold back, and knowing when to fucking hit.
Pip thinking she had backed me into some clean little friends-with-benefits agreement was almost cute.
Almost.
She could call it physical if that made her feel safer.
She could dress it up as attraction, chemistry, benefits, no feelings, no expectations, no hockey-girlfriend bullshit, and whatever other terms she needed to keep herself from bolting.
I’d let her. I’d even agree out loud because I wasn’t stupid enough to argue with a woman who had one hand on the door and fear pretending to be logic in her eyes.
But she had given me access.
That was what mattered.
She could pretend the label changed the reality, but I knew better.
She had looked at me in her kitchen like she wanted to be devoured and then made rules because the wanting scared her.
She had let me kiss her. Let me lift her.
Let me eat her until she came apart with my name in her throat, and now she was sitting beside me sipping my coffee like my entire bloodstream didn’t still remember the taste of her.
Benefits.
Sure, Pip.
We’d call it that for now.
“Tell me about your mom?” I asked carefully, mostly because if I kept thinking about the way she’d looked on her bed with her hands in my hair, I was going to have to pull over and rethink every choice that had led me to a public road.
The softness stayed on her face even then. “She was mostly a homemaker,” Pip said quietly. “But she had a side hustle.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She owned a little coffee drive-through called The Early Morning Grind.”
I laughed immediately. “That’s actually adorable.”
“I know.” She smiled faintly at herself while looking out the window. “It was this tiny little portable coffee trailer thing. We all worked there growing up. Mom would bake muffins and croissants and cookies at like four in the morning, and we’d help package everything before school.”
“That sounds fucking wholesome.”
She laughed softly. “It kind of was.”
I pictured a younger version of her in that trailer, probably half-awake and mouthy even then, flour on her cheek, hair messy, snapping at one of her brothers for stealing a muffin, and instantly had to stop myself from smiling like an idiot.
Too late.
She glanced over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true with your face.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is expensive and suspicious.”
I smiled despite myself. “You’re very hostile for someone who just came on my tongue.”
“It’s a conundrum I know.”
“That sounds like something a criminal would say.”
“I prefer orgasm opportunist.”
“Tiny orgasm criminal.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Careful, Cross Check.”
There it was. The nickname. That little flick of attitude that hit differently now because I knew what she sounded like without the attitude. I knew what happened when her sharp mouth lost words. I knew the way her breath caught when she stopped trying to win and just felt.
My fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“What happened to it?” I asked, dragging us back before my self-control decided to embarrass me.
Her expression softened again. “Dad couldn’t keep it after she died,” she admitted quietly. “Too many memories.” She shrugged gently. “He sold the trailer a few years later.”
Silence settled softly between us after that, not awkward, just weighted. The kind of silence that belonged to grief and old family things I didn’t have the right to touch too hard. Then she glanced over at me.
“Does your mom work?”
I snorted under my breath. “Define work.”
Pip laughed instantly, turning slightly toward me in her seat. “Okay, fair. What does she do then?”
“My mother is a socialite.”
“Impressive, I think.” She grinned. “What exactly does a socialite do?”
“The honest answer?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
She laughed harder at that, warm and bright enough to make the inside of the Range Rover feel smaller.
“No, seriously,” I continued, smiling despite myself. “Lunches. Tennis. Country clubs. Charity galas. Expensive vacations. Hanging out with women who are equally rich and equally bored.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She studied me quietly for a second after that before asking more softly, “You guys really aren’t close at all?”
My grip tightened slightly against the steering wheel.
Not because the question bothered me, but because the answer always felt strange saying out loud.
Like I should care more. Like some part of me was defective because I had learned young not to expect warmth from people who technically belonged to me.
“I couldn’t tell you my mom’s favorite color,” I admitted honestly. “Or her favorite food. Favorite movie. Favorite song.” I shrugged slightly. “But I do know she loves Aperol spritzes, expensive champagne, and martinis that taste like paint thinner.”
Pip smiled faintly at that, but I still caught the sadness in her eyes immediately.
There it was again.
That look.
The one that made me want to take every soft thing in her and hide it somewhere nobody else could touch.
Not pity. If it had been pity, I would have hated it.
This was different. She hurt for me before she could stop herself, like her heart reacted faster than her brain could remind her I wasn’t asking for anything.
Without thinking, I reached over and rested my hand on top of hers where it sat between us on the center console.
Her fingers twitched slightly beneath mine.
That hit differently now too.
Yesterday, touching her hand would have been loaded.
Today, after last night, after this morning, after knowing exactly what her body did when she stopped fighting me, every point of contact felt like a reminder and a promise.
Her skin under mine. Her breath catching.
The memory of her hands fisting in my hair.
I kept my hand still because I was disciplined.
Not calm, not by a long shot.
Disciplined.
“I can feel this making you sad,” I said quietly. “Don’t let it.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. “How does it not make you sad?”
I shrugged lightly, thumb brushing once against the back of her hand. “Because I never had it.” I squeezed her hand gently. “You can’t really miss something you’ve never experienced.”
The look on her face after that nearly wrecked me.
Holy shit, I was becoming addicted to that look.
To all of them, actually.
The soft one. The mouthy one. The breathless one. The one she got right before she lied to herself and called whatever this was benefits because feelings were too dangerous to name.