Chapter 33
NASH
Isuck in a sharp breath of air through my teeth and readjust myself for what feels like the thousandth time tonight, searching in vain for a comfortable position.
On the ice today, I felt invincible. I didn’t feel any of the exertion I put my muscles through as I skated like I was on fire, powered through body checks, rushed to intercept passes, and put my entire strength into every single shot on goal I took.
Until I got home, and the adrenaline wore off.
My back muscles are screaming at me. They’re getting their revenge for how much work I demanded of them during the game today, that’s for damn sure.
I haven’t minded sleeping on the couch at all since Piper moved in. It’s been perfectly comfortable. But tonight, with my back in this state, I just can’t find a position that works for me, thanks to the creases between the cushions and the uneven dips from where we’ve been sitting on it.
A grunt punches out of my chest when I twist in the exact wrong way, and a wave of pain travels from the small of my back down my right leg.
That’s not a good sign. I’ll have to talk to the trainers next time I go into the arena.
“That’s it,” Piper’s voice suddenly surprises me from the dark. “I’m willing to take drastic measures tonight.”
Furrows dig into my brow. “Piper, what are you talking about?”
Piper rounds the couch from behind and stands in front of me, and my eyebrows leap when I look up at her.
Piper is holding one of my practice hockey sticks in her right hand, hip propped in an I-mean-business pose, with a hard set to her jaw and determination in her eyes.
“Piper … what the—”
She cuts me off with a sharp clip, “You’re sleeping in your bed tonight. And if I have to physically assault you with this hockey stick and chase you into the sheets, I’ll do it.”
I blink dumbly at her three or four times, standing there like some character in a fighting video game, her weapon at her side, outlined in the silvery moonlight. Finally, the full absurdity of the situation hits me, and I can’t help but laugh.
Until she shuts me up by swiftly bringing the hockey stick down so it strikes the armrest inches away from my head.
“It’s cute that you think I’m joking,” she says, nothing but seriousness in her voice. “Try laughing again.”
Even though this situation hasn’t become one iota less absurd, I somehow don’t have any laughter left in me now.
“I told you when you moved in—” I begin, getting ready to explain to Piper that there’s no way I’m letting her sleep on a couch while I hog the bed, but she sharply cuts me off yet again.
“And I told you you’re sleeping in your bed tonight, just now.” Whack. The hockey stick comes down on the armrest again, and I feel the whip of air from its movement. “Don’t play with me, Nash.”
Why does Piper threatening me with a potentially deadly object … kind of turn me on?
“Piper, I’m fine. I like sleeping on the couch.”
“I’ve heard you tossing and turning and groaning out here for an hour. You’re not fine.”
I sigh, rummaging around my head for an argument.
“I’m never going to be able to get to sleep anyway, hearing you uncomfortable, and knowing it’s because I’m taking your bed. No matter what you say, I just won’t be able to. I’ll be up all night feeling guilty. You don’t want your poor wife feeling guilty, do you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Somehow you trying to tug on my heartstrings with sympathy doesn’t work too well when you’re holding a weapon you just threatened me with.”
She grins. “And I’m still willing to use it. Now get up and get your ass into bed.”
Hearing my wife ordering me into bed like that makes my cock twitch, even if the context is hardly romantic.
How confident am I that Piper wouldn’t really physically assault me with one of my hockey sticks until I gave in and spent the night in my bed?
… Not very.
Nope, I wouldn’t put it past my wife to follow through with her threats. I can imagine her beating me with a hockey stick until I stopped being boneheaded. I can imagine it only all too well.
I’d better surrender now before I just accumulate more damage tonight.
“Fine,” I sigh, heaving myself up from the couch, not without wincing in pain from using my muscles.
“March,” she commands, straightening her arm and pointing to the open bedroom door.
“Are you usually this bossy when you order a man into bed?” I must be tired if my lips are loose enough to ask that. Or maybe I’m getting entirely too comfortable around my wife.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
If I said I’ve never been curious about what Piper’s like in bed, I’d be a lying bastard.
I bet she does like to take initiative. And I bet she’s never been with a guy who could seize that initiative from her, make her feel the urge to be just a little bit submissive in a way she never is in daily life.
Piper doesn’t slacken in her prison-guard demeanor, marching me forward, standing behind with the hockey stick looming ominously in her grip.
“There,” I say after lowering myself onto the bed I haven’t slept in in weeks. Piper’s scent, now imprinted on the sheets and blanket and pillows, pierces my nose and makes my heart flutter in my chest.
“Good,” Piper nods. She rests the hockey stick against the wall and turns around, no doubt intending to take my place on the couch for tonight—but before she can take a step in that direction, I lean over and wrap my arms around her from behind.
She yelps as I tug her onto the bed, my arms tightening around her waist and holding her close to me as she tries to pull away instinctively.
“Nash!” she gasps. “What are you doing!”
“I told you before,” my voice feels too raspy in my throat as I speak against the soft shell of her ear, “my wife doesn’t sleep on the couch.”
“Nash,” she chides, but I can already feel her body relaxing slightly against my touch.
“Wife,” I chide right back, “this is the deal. If you insist that I sleep in the bed tonight, fine. But you’re sleeping here, too.”
The protest seeps out of her body, her posture softening in my grip. Even though she’s no longer making any movements to get up, I still have my arms curled around her far too tightly, tucking her far too firmly against my chest.
The fit of her back against my front also feels far, far too good.
“Alright, Nash, you win,” she says, her voice sounding sleepy and wispy. “You can let go now.”
I can. But should I?
I mull over the question far too long, all the while keeping her pressed close.
“Are you a cuddler or something, Nash?” Piper asks. There’s amusement in her voice, but also a lot more sleepiness. I feel it, too. It’s like the second we hit the mattress, the strain of the day caught up with us. It clearly has both of our guards down.
“Not usually,” I answer truthfully.
Piper yawns, a breathy, musical sound that makes my chest feel light. “Just with me, huh?”
“Maybe,” I answer, my voice thick and tired, my eyelids already too heavy to keep open. “Maybe just with my wife.”
Soft morning light hits the front of my eyelids, and my consciousness slowly turns on.
I’m on my back, sprawled out, and the first thing I realize is that I feel more rested and relaxed than I have in a long, long time.
No, it’s more than that. There’s a thrum of pleasure and satisfaction vibrating through me that simply a good night’s sleep—even the best night’s sleep—couldn’t be responsible for.
But what is it? How do I feel so good, so comfortable, so content?
There’s something against me. A soft, supple, warm pressure just at my side. My arm’s looped around it, tucking it close to me. And there’s something silky and smooth feathering in soft strands across my bare chest.
But my brain is nothing but a pleasant buzz of static, and I don’t even think to ask myself what it is, or why it’s here in my bed. I just pull in a deep breath and luxuriate in this feeling.
I let myself float along the wave of passing time like a cloud drifting through a clear sky for I don’t know how long. But, eventually, inevitably, the different parts of my brain start to come to life.
I remember why I’m in my bed, and not on the couch. Because Piper insisted on me sleeping here, because of my hurt back. She literally forced me to. And then I pulled her into bed with me and—
It’s her. That pressure and weight and warmth at my side that feels otherworldly good. It’s Piper, snuggled against me, her hair dusting my bare torso as we lie in bed together.
Her leg is looped over mine, her thigh resting on the top of my leg, dangerously close to my full and stiff morning erection.
The responsible, decision-making part of my brain is starting to rustle awake, sending out signals that this isn’t good. There’s a whisper in the recesses of my mind telling me that I’m blatantly stepping over way too many boundaries right now, and enjoying it way too much.
But the voice is too distant, and its vibrations barely carry through a fog of sleep and comfort that’s still thick through my consciousness.
Instead of listening to the tiny voice of reason in my head, I listen to the urges sweeping through my body. I let the pads of my fingers press into Piper’s soft skin, my hand resting on her shoulder that’s bare thanks to her strappy tank top, and I tuck her closer.
I don’t miss much about Bridgett or our relationship. Not really. But waking up next to someone, feeling their warmth and closeness against me as the first sign of day?
I let out a pleased sigh. “I missed this.” I can hear the rumble of my voice, the words pulled from my throat without my volition, in a dreamy daze.
But my own voice hitting my ears does something to me that the smaller voice in my head couldn’t. It cuts through the fog, right to a part of my brain that instantly rings an alarm bell.
A cold, sober feeling closes over me, and my eyes shoot open. This isn’t good at all. We still have months to go before this fake marriage ends, and blurring lines like this is the surest path to disaster.
I fling off the covers and get out of bed as quickly as I can, trying not to wake Piper as I disentangle myself from her.
I hear Piper starting to move as I walk out of the bedroom, but I don’t turn around. Because right now, I need to screw my head back on right and remind myself that this so-called marriage is fake. That no feelings—physical or emotional—were ever supposed to be involved.
And if I see my wife sitting up in bed first thing in the morning, that’s not going to be easy.