Chapter Thirty-One
Tenderness
Winnie
Banks’ hand is wrapped around mine, and the anticipation is killing me. The elevator ride to his floor feels endless. I watch the floor numbers climb—eighteen, nineteen, twenty—and try to calm the butterflies rioting in my stomach.
The doors open on twenty-two, and he leads me down a quiet hallway. Soft carpet underfoot. Muted lighting. The kind of hush that comes with expensive soundproofing and neighbors who value their privacy.
He stops at the last door on the left—a corner unit. He fumbles with his keys; his hands are shaking slightly, I notice, and then the door swings open.
“It’s not much,” he says, almost apologetically.
I step inside, and my breath catches.
It’s not what I expected. I’d imagined something cold and sparse, maybe bachelor utilitarian: a couch, a TV, nothing on the walls.
This is different.
The apartment is spacious—open concept, with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the glittering Manhattan skyline. The city sprawls below us, a sea of lights and movement, and the view alone must be worth a fortune.
But it’s the details that surprise me.
The living room has a deep charcoal sectional, oversized and comfortable-looking, with a soft throw blanket folded neatly over one arm.
There’s a bookshelf against one wall—actually full of books, not decorative props—and when I step closer, I see dog-eared paperbacks mixed with hardcovers.
Thrillers, mostly. Some history. A few that look like biographies of hockey legends.
The kitchen is clean but clearly used. A bowl of fruit sits on the counter—filled with bananas, oranges and apples. A fancy coffee maker rests beside it. Magnets adorn the fridge: one shaped like a hockey puck, another that simply says “EAT” in blocky red letters.
“Banks.” I turn to look at him. He’s hovering near the door, watching me take in his space, looking almost nervous. “This is lovely.”
“It’s just an apartment.”
“It’s your apartment. It’s you.” I wander further in, trailing my fingers along the back of the couch. The fabric is soft—expensive but not flashy. “This couch is enormous.”
“I’m enormous. Regular couches don’t fit.”
I laugh, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders.
The walls aren’t bare, either. There’s a framed print of what looks like a Canadian landscape—mountains, water, and endless sky—and a few photographs in simple black frames. I step closer to examine them.
One is a team photo. The Knights, from what looks like a few seasons ago. Banks is in the back row, towering over everyone, not quite smiling but not scowling either.
Another is older and grainier. A teenage boy on a frozen pond, stick in hand, grinning at the camera with a joy I’ve never seen on adult Banks’s face.
“Is this you?” I ask.
He comes up behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Yeah. I was maybe fifteen. Some photographer came to do a piece on youth hockey in the Midwest. I don’t even remember his name, but he sent me a copy a few years later.”
“You look happy.”
“Hockey was the only thing that made me happy back then.” He pauses. “It was the only thing I had.”
I turn to face him. In the dim light filtering through the windows, his features are soft, open, and vulnerable in a way I’m still getting used to.
“What else do you have now?” I ask.
“You.” He says it simply, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s everything.
I kiss him.
It starts gently—a soft press of lips, a quiet affirmation. But then his hands find my waist, and my fingers slide into his hair, and suddenly gentle isn’t enough.
He walks me backward, and I let him guide me, trusting him to navigate his own space. My shoulders bump against a doorframe, and then we’re in a hallway, and then another door, and then—
His bedroom.
The city lights spill through another massive window, illuminating a king-sized bed with a dark gray comforter, neatly made. Nightstands sit on either side: one with a lamp and a book splayed open face-down, and the other completely empty.
Like he’s been waiting for someone to fill it.
“Win.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and searching. “Are you sure about this?”
I reach up and touch his jaw. The stubble is rough against my palm, grounding me in the reality of this moment. He leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth, and something aches in my chest. Aches for this man who just wants to be loved.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
Something shifts in his expression—relief, maybe, or wonder. Like he still can’t quite believe I’m here, that I chose him, that this is real.
“Okay,” he breathes. He kisses me again, and this time there’s nothing tentative about it.
We move toward the bed in a tangle of limbs and whispered words. His jacket lands somewhere near the door. My jersey—his jersey, the one I wore to claim him in front of twenty thousand people—gets pulled over my head and set aside with more care than the jacket received.
“I like seeing you in my name,” he murmurs against my throat.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Makes me feel like you’re mine.”
“I am yours.”
He groans and captures my mouth again.
His shirt is next. He works on the tie while I undo the buttons on his shirt. Then my hands are on his chest, feeling the warm expanse of skin and the definition of muscle beneath.
He’s beautiful. I knew that already—I’ve seen him shirtless at the facility, watched him in the weight room when I thought no one was looking. But this is different. This is mine to explore.
I trace the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his biceps, the ridge of an old scar near his collarbone. His skin is warm beneath my palms, smooth over hard muscle. He shivers under my touch, and I realize with a start that he’s trembling.
“Banks?”
“I’m okay.” His voice is rough and strained. “It’s just—no one’s ever—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
No one’s ever touched him like this. With care. With intention. With the specific goal of making him feel good, not just getting something from him.
My heart cracks open a little more.
“Sit down,” I tell him, nodding toward the bed.
He obeys, sitting on the edge of the mattress and looking up at me with an expression that’s equal parts hunger and uncertainty. I step between his knees, and his hands automatically find my hips, gripping me like he needs an anchor.
“I want to touch you,” I say. “If you’re okay with that…”
“Win—”
“Let me take care of you.” I run my fingers through his hair, and his eyes flutter closed. “You’ve spent your whole life taking care of everyone else. Protecting everyone else. Let someone take care of you for once.”
He swallows hard and nods.
I start at his shoulders, running my palms over the breadth of them and feeling the tension knotted beneath the skin. His muscles are hard from years of training, but the way he carries himself—tight, braced for impact even now—tells me the tension is more than physical.
“Feel good?” I ask.
“Yeah.” The word comes out broken. “So good, Win.”
I trail my hands down his arms, over his biceps—God, his biceps, thick and defined and straining—to his forearms and wrists. His hands flex against my hips. I bring one of them to my mouth and press a kiss to his palm.
He makes a sound. Low. Wounded.
I kiss each of his knuckles: the bruised ones from tonight’s fight, still raw and tender; the scarred ones from fights before, the skin white and ridged.
“These hands,” I murmur, “they’ve been through so much.”
“They’ve had to.”
“I know. But not anymore. Not with me.” I press another kiss to his wrist, where his pulse thrums beneath the skin. “With me, you can be soft.”
His breath shudders out of him.
My hands move to his chest. I flatten my palms against his pecs, feeling his heart pound beneath my touch. He’s warm—so warm—and solid in a way that makes me feel safe even as I’m the one in control.
“Feel good, Banksy?”
“So good.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Nothing’s ever felt this good, baby.”
The endearment sends heat pooling low in my belly. I file it away—baby—and keep exploring.
I trace the ridges of his abs, one by one, feeling the muscles twitch and flex under my fingers. His breathing becomes ragged. The V-lines leading into his waistband are well-defined, and when I trace them with my fingertips, his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Win—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
I lean down and kiss his chest, right over his heart. He jerks beneath me, his hands tightening on my hips.
I continue exploring, my lips trailing across his chest, his ribs, and the flat plane of his stomach.
My hands roam everywhere—his back, his sides, the sensitive spots just above his hips that make him squirm.
He’s falling apart beneath me, his composure crumbling with every touch.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
When I finally reach for his belt, he catches my wrist.
“Win. I need—I want to touch you too.”
“Soon.”
“But—”
“Shh.” I wait until his eyes meet mine. They’re dark, glazed, barely holding on. “Let me.”
Something breaks in his expression; the last wall crumbles.
“Okay,” he whispers.
I undo his belt slowly, drawing out the anticipation. The button of his jeans. The zipper. He lifts his hips to help me slide them down, and then—
Oh.
He’s straining against his boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide how much he wants this. Wants me. I trace the outline of him through the cotton, and he hisses through his teeth.
“Fuck. Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing. I’m appreciating.”
“Win—”
I pull his boxers down, and my breath catches.
I knew he was big; I discovered that much the night of the gala. But seeing him like this—fully bare, hard and straining, looking at me like I’m everything—
“You’re staring,” he says, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Can you blame me?” I wrap my hand around him, and his whole body tightens, a groan tearing from his throat. “You’re perfect, Banks. Every inch of you.”
He’s thick and heavy in my palm, silky skin over steel. I stroke him slowly, watching his face, cataloging every reaction—the way his jaw clenches, his eyes flutter, his hands fist in the sheets.
“Win—fuck—”
“Good?”
“Too good. I’m going to—if you keep—”
I let go, and he makes a sound of protest that borders on pain.
“Not yet,” I tell him. “I want you inside me when you come.”
His eyes go dark. Then I’m on my back, the mattress soft beneath me, his body covering mine.
“My turn,” he growls.
He’s gentle—so gentle—even with the desperation radiating off him. His hands shake as he removes the rest of my clothes, reverent and careful. He looks at me like I’m a revelation.
“Win.” My name sounds like a prayer on his lips. “God, Win. You’re—I don’t have words.”
His hands map my body the way I mapped his, learning every curve, every dip. His fingers trail fire across my skin. When he finally touches me where I need him most, I cry out, my back arching.
“Like that?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Yes—Yes—don’t stop—”
He works me with patient, devastating precision, and when I finally shatter, he holds me through it, murmuring my name like it’s his favorite word.
Then he reaches for the nightstand, rolls on protection, and positions himself. Our eyes meet.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He pushes in slowly, and I gasp at the stretch. He’s a lot. But it’s good—so good—the delicious fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being completely joined with him like this. “You okay?” His voice is strained.
“More than okay.” I wrap my legs around him. “More.”
“Yes, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, low whisper, his eyes heavy-lidded.
He moves slowly at first, then faster, harder. The sensation overwhelms me. Each thrust drives us higher. I hold on to his shoulders, his back—anywhere I can reach—and when we finally fall over the edge together, it’s with his name on my lips and mine on his.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back. My fingers find his other hand and lift it to my lips.
I kiss his knuckles again—the bruised, scarred knuckles that have seen so many fights. I hate all the pain that made him who he is. But I love the man he is.
“I love you,” he says quietly, as if testing the words.
“I love you too.”
“Stay tonight?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tighten around me, and I close my eyes.
For the first time in weeks, neither of us is scared.
We fall asleep tangled together, and it’s perfect.