Chapter Thirteen Ingrid and King
He can hold both of my dogs in his lap. At once.
King Silverbow, arrogant asswipe hockey player, is secretly the best dog babysitter in the world.
Chip has his head on King’s shoulder, burrowing for dear life, and King just coos at him and tells him he’s being such a good, brave boy.
Daisy is sprawled out, shedding all over his pants, looking like a throw rug, nosing under his palm if he stops petting her for a second.
I have to change my scrubs because they’re covered in second-hand fur, but I also feel like I need to change everything underneath.
Watching him hold my big furballs like they’re tiny puppies shouldn’t make me wet, but it does.
Damn it, biological clock. You stay out of this.
No one asked you. You’re not thinking about how he’d cradle your kids, their sleepy pale green faces resting on his broad shoulders.
No. You’re not thinking how he’d easily carry two or three kids at once, playing outlaws and pirates, a big kid himself, who could turn on a dime and be their warrior and defender.
Definitely not thinking about how he growled and told Lester to back off when he was checking out my ass.
The biological clock hands off the baton to my libido, and a new leg of this romance relay that I never wanted begins.
Not thinking about how easily he could hold me. Pick me up. Slam into me. Or just let me sit on his lap. Not thinking about the kisses. And how he was a gentleman.
I bite my lip and hop in the shower, trying to scrub away the wetness that’s slicker than water.
I don’t want him to be a gentleman tonight.
Don’t think about being naked up here while he’s down there on your couch.
Don’t fantasize about him stumbling in looking for the bathroom, finding you in nothing but body wash...
Somehow, I keep composed. I heat up a frozen pizza for dinner, determined that I will not bow to pressure from my libido, my biological clock, or even the dogs, who refuse to leave King’s lap even when the storm passes.
“You look amazing.”
I look down. I’m in flowy black pajama pants and my old Proud Navy Daughter tank top. My flappy upper arms are completely uncovered, my pouchy middle is unconcealed, soft and free, and my hair is up in a wet bun.
“You’re still dealing with that concussion, huh?” I tease.
“Don’t do that. Don’t insult my beautiful Ingrid,” he warns, his voice holding that same little growl that shoots one of Cupid’s arrows right into my lady bits and sets them throbbing.
“I’m just being realistic.” I shrug, getting out a pitcher of the local Onyx Farms apple cider.
“You’re too hard on yourself. You see flaws that aren’t there.”
“Well, I’m compensating. You seem like someone who sees perfection, even when it’s not there,” I quip.
It was meant to be a joke, but King takes it seriously.
“I know I’m not perfect. I was just... I was the perfect son for my mom, and as Orcs go... I’m good-looking, and I’m athletic. If this were the old days, I’d be a ‘catch.’” He shrugs and looks sober.
“Oh? Well, I mean, I can’t argue with handsome and athletic.” I pick at the pepperoni on my pizza, butterflies in my stomach making it hard to eat.
He nods, but doesn’t eat.
“Why just your mom? Why perfect for her?”
“Oh. Uh. Well, I never met her, but I had a sister. Gruoch. Named after one of the ancient Scottish queens. She... She wasn’t perfect. Not healthwise. It’s rare for Orcs, but it can happen to them, just like it can happen to humans.” He pokes his plate.
Every curse in the world is running through my head, and after growing up on naval bases and visiting so many different places, that’s a lot.
“I call myself an only child. My parents say that, too. They never mention her anymore. Never put up pictures. She had defects from birth. Lung and heart. My mom only ever said she died before her first birthday, and I was already on the way. They were terrified I was going to be the same, but nope. I came out screaming and kicking, so perfect. Physically. And I was big, and strong, and fast... Things an Orc should be.” King shakes his head.
“You’re right. They spent so much time crowing over what a perfect physical specimen I was. It went to my head.”
I’m stunned. Can’t speak. Didn’t even think of something so out of his control as the reason behind his arrogance, but then again, who would imagine such a miserable reason? My mouth opens and my eyes fill up, but no sound comes out.
His eyes meet mine, his grin crooked. “I never think of her. Never let things go too deep, but I guess you’re right.
They were grieving, and I came along. A healthy baby after burying one who’d been ill and struggling since birth.
My mother said I healed their hearts. Maybe I didn’t do a good job of it.
They probably should have spent more time mourning her, not celebrating me.
My dad got upset with me one time for asking about Gruoch.
He said, ‘Life is for the living. Let the dead bury their dead.’” He shakes his head and picks up the frosted mug of cider.
“I should have seen this before. I think about things differently since I’ve been hurt.
I think about life differently since I met you. ”
It’s only been a few days, but I think about things differently because of him, too.
“I’m sorry, King. I... You know, I think I have my own issues. I’ve always wanted to look perfect. Like my friends. Like the models or the movie stars—”
His hand cups my cheek, his arm easily reaching across the table when he leans. “Why would you want to look like those pale, painted copies? You’re so much prettier. So much more real. So much more.”
I had a big explanation I was going to give, a sudden overflow of guilt about judging him for being handsome as some kind of backlash against the way society perceives women who look like me, about the way I perceive myself.
I find myself thinking that I can save it for later as my chair scoots towards his and both of his hands pull me in, fingers splayed over my cheeks and against my throat, his huge hands dominating me.
“I never saw perfection ‘til I saw you. And I mean that, even if you don’t believe me,” he whispers between our feverish kisses.
Don’t do this. Don’t go crazy. Too soon.
Want him. Need him.
Feels perfect with him—physically.
Whenever I spend time with him, another chink in the arrogant armor appears, and there’s so much sweetness and longing underneath.
I wonder if he’s worrying about staying “perfect,” not just for his career, or his fans, but for his parents. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a kid—and he’s not much older than one. What was I like when I was twenty-four?
I was pretty sure I had the world figured out, and I didn’t.
Hell, I’m still that way.
I fall into King’s arms, but he can’t stand. Doesn’t stop him from lifting me, draping my legs across his lap so I’m straddling him, our lips still fused. His hands are in my hair, on my back, and everywhere he touches feels like warmth. Safety. Desire.
It’s not just perfection, it’s a perfect surprise.
“Perfection isn’t what I want if it’s not you,” he breathes out between kisses that turn from nibbles to mauls. His tusks scrape along my cheek and my lower lip, and oh, God... I didn’t know that a little light scrape could make my eyes roll back.
He makes me doubt my medical training. I obviously missed something in anatomy, because I’m discovering new nerve endings every second.
“Do you... Do you want me?” King asks, mouth finding the sweet spot where my jawbone meets my throat.
“I do.” But. There are a hundred reasons not to, plenty of them racing to my lips, only to be bodyslammed to silence by a passionate kiss, the same way King would chuck someone down on the ice with a single brush of his giant shoulders.
“I do,” I say again, sure that I’ll add on all my reasons why he can’t have me in just a second.
If only his voice didn’t sound so excited and incredulous, so awestruck and happy when he whispers, “You do?”
Now’s the time to deny it. To shut it down. Pump the brakes, say wait...
Annoyingly, the truth pops up at the wrong second. You try hard not to lie to yourself, Ingrid. It’s what lets you make peace with the life you have, the life you want. The truth is...
I like this person. Underneath my first impression of arrogance and all looks, no heart, is someone who is trying to care, trying to come to grips with imperfection and humanity, trying to get that he can be loved if he’s not just some icon, some all-star.
Would he still want me if he weren’t injured? Am I just part of his early midlife crisis?
“I do. I’m not sure you’d want me, though. Not if you weren’t suddenly changing up your life and getting thrown curves like your injury and your career being on hold.” Or over. “When you’re better—”
“When I’m better, it’ll be because of you.
My life will be better—and my leg will only be part of it.
Part of me. All of me wants you—and these are the kinds of curves I want thrown at me for the rest of my life,” King rasps, hands molding down the extra rolls of padding that lead to my hips, sinking his hands into my ass to press me more firmly to him.
I don’t have answers to that for a moment, because I’m too busy being struck by the hugeness of the bulge I can feel against my thigh, and I suddenly worry that with all the extra Orc abilities, he can feel how soaking wet and hot I am for him.
The chair gives a warning creak. I don’t think it was meant to hold an Orc plus one. I slide from his lap, looking at his bereft expression.
“If you don’t believe me—I’ll wait, you know. And work on it. You’re another reason for me to get better—so that when I’m 100% healed, I can get down on this knee and—”
“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” I hold up both hands, voice high enough to bring both dogs running from the living room where they were snoozing in a post-storm cuddle coma.