10. Daisy
CHAPTER TEN
DAISY
Harrison comes in so quietly, I almost think I’m dreaming it. The faint rumble of the front door. The dull thunk of his gear bag landing hard on the closet floor. Then nothing for a few long seconds, the dark settling back in.
I’m half-awake, face smushed into the pillow, my body stretched under the comforter just the way I like it. Knowing he would be home sometime tonight kept me wired, and I haven’t been able to drift off.
My new hardcover novel is on the nightstand. The jacket sleeve is slightly crumpled from where I dropped it mid-chapter. My side of the bed is claimed, sheets and blanket tucked into a tight cocoon around my hips. I need control, even in sleep. So, sue me.
The city glows through the windows, all cold blues and acid white. Shadows move across the slick floor, tossing highlights over the wall, the edge of the dresser, the bare stretch of my own arm. The world outside hums on without us.
He pauses just inside the doorway. There’s the soft scrape of fabric.
A shirt hitting the hamper, then the quiet drag of denim as he peels his jeans down.
It’s a routine he’s honed. There’s no fanfare, no rattling, just the practiced, silent undressing of someone who doesn’t want to risk waking the dragon.
Or whatever I am past 3 a.m. on a Thursday morning.
He crosses the room, bare feet on concrete, stealthy. I feel his weight at the edge of the mattress before I hear his breath. The space behind me shifts, heat blooming with the nearness of him.
Then his arm lands across my waist, gentle but firm, and he hauls me back against his chest. The man never does anything halfway.
His mouth finds the back of my neck. Warm breath, then lips, soft and searching. He lingers there, right under the edge of my hairline. Not a quick peck. It’s more like he’s memorizing the taste of me, one press at a time.
I sigh, shifting back, my ass flush to his hips. I feel all of him—hard chest, thick arms, rock-hard cock. The scratch of his jaw comes in right behind me. I let my head loll forward, giving him more skin.
He keeps going. Down, then across the line of my shoulder, teeth grazing, then lips again, slow, deliberate. Like he’s got all night. Like he’s not coming off a five-day road trip and about twenty-three hours without sleep.
I crack one eye open, peering at the city lights. “You make it home in one piece, Stafford?” He could’ve waited until tomorrow morning to fly home with the team, but he decided to take a late-night commercial flight from New York after the game ended.
His rough, low voice is the best sound I’ve heard lately. “Told you, nothing keeps me away from you for long.”
I want to crack wise, but I’m too damn happy to see him. Instead, I wriggle in closer, twisting so I’m facing him. He lets me, hands never losing contact with my hip, then my ribs, splayed wide and possessive.
He’s bare-chested, hair all wild, eyes dark in the low light.
He looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s got left in the world.
I reach up with one hand, threading my fingers into his hair. It’s soft at the roots, a little greasy, like he hasn’t bothered washing it since the end of the game. I love it anyway.
He breathes out shakily. His thumb sweeps the curve of my side, finding the hollow above my hip bone, then lower, then up again, reverent, like he’s relearning my map after too many hotel beds.
“I missed you.” His voice is so full it cracks at the edge. Not what I expected, but it grabs me right by the heart and twists.
God. Speak of the devil. I missed him so bad it was like missing a limb.
I don’t even hesitate. “I missed you so much. I can barely sleep when you’re gone.” My voice sounds raw, but that’s the truth all the way down.
His face softens. Some of the tension drains out of his jaw, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, he’s drinking me in. “Out there, everything feels too fucking quiet. It’s just noise. I can’t think straight until I’m home, here, with you.”
That sound my heart makes? I pretend it’s not happening, but he probably feels it, the way we’re tangled together.
We just lie here, face to face, trading breath and heat, the world outside gone. I stroke his scalp, little lazy circles behind his ear. His hand splays along my ribs, palm flattening against my shirt. I think he’s counting the beats.
There’s no pressure to say more. The words hang between us, heavy and good.
He speaks first. “I swear, it gets worse every trip.” His forehead brushes mine, the touch grounding me. “First night away, I’m fine. Second night, I’m texting you at three in the morning, fixating on when you’ll answer. By the time we hit the third night, I’m losing my goddamn mind missing you.”
I run my thumb along his jaw, lightly scraping the hard edge of bone under my fingernail.
My thighs tangle with his. He fits against me so well it’s almost offensive. I melt, just a little, into that familiar shape.
“I missed you, too,” I whisper against his lips. His mouth is inches from mine, but he doesn’t rush. He traces my side one more time, palm catching on the curve of my breast just briefly before coming to rest against the line of my ribs.
We stay like this. Just breathing. Just holding on.
Then, he goes still. His palm is heavy, right over my heartbeat.
He waits a beat, maybe two, and then says it. “I love you.”
My heart pounds away in my chest as I stare into his dark eyes.
“I’ve been in love with you since the first time you asked for a kiss.” The words slip out quietly, but it’s no less real. “You have no idea how hard it was for me not to give you that hat trick kiss.”
His face cracks wide, like something inside him just came undone. The look in his eyes is wild, open, and desperate just for me.
He rolls away from me, only for a second, reaching into the nightstand. The drawer sticks, then slides open. He pulls out a little box and palms it, then faces me again.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. “Daisy Castille.” His voice is low and steady. “You wanna spend the rest of your life keeping me on the straight and narrow?”
I blink at the ring. It’s nothing like what I would’ve pictured a professional hockey player would pick out. It isn’t big or flashy. It’s just perfect. His hand trembles as he slides it onto my finger.
I study the way it fits, then look at him, all rough edges and beautiful hope.
“That’s a pretty big job.” I pause, then let the real answer bleed through. “But I’m up for it. You’re a handful, Stafford, but you’re my handful.”
He grins, goofy, all-in. We lie there, grinning at each other like idiots, the city blazing at our backs, and for the first time ever, I know what it feels like to be all the way home.
I don’t even remember falling asleep. Only the steady, solid press of his chest at my back, and the promise, silent as night, shining on my hand.