Cheyenne
The penthouse is quiet except for the music floating through the space. I’m standing near the windows with my phone in hand, the instrumental track spilling through the speaker as I repeat the same verse for the third time.
Outside, the city glows in the fading light, but in here it’s just me, the lyrics, and the stillness I’ve been craving all day.
Singing has always been the one thing in my life that makes everything else fall away.
No cameras, producers, or expectations.
It’s just the melody and the way it settles inside me when I stop thinking.
I close my eyes and start again, softer this time. Instead of focusing on the technical aspects, I lean into how it feels. The notes rise, and I let them stretch, filling the room until there’s nothing left but the music and the quiet ache threaded through it.
I hold the last note longer, letting it fade slowly into silence.
“Wow. That was amazing.”
I jump and nearly bobble my phone before spinning around, only to find Knox standing near the kitchen, his bag slung over one shoulder.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “How long have you been there?”
He shrugs, setting the bag down on the floor. “Long enough.”
Heat climbs up my neck. “You should have said something when you came in.”
His mouth twitches as he saunters toward me. “You were busy and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious. Singing in front of a crowd is one thing. Singing bare and unguarded is something else entirely.
“It was a little off,” I mutter in embarrassment.
He stops a few feet away before shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t.” His voice dips. “I’ve heard you sing before, but never like that.”
I blink at the admittance. “You have? Where?”
He glances away, jerking his shoulders. “I might’ve watched the show.”
I stare at him in shock. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you’ve watched the show?”
He shifts. “Maybe a few episodes here and there.”
My brows rise as I cock my head. “A few? What are we talking about? One or two episodes? Or one or two seasons?”
His jaw tightens as he admits, “It might have been a couple seasons.”
“Oh my God.” I laugh. “Are you secretly a Cheyenne Benson fan?”
Even though he snorts, color rises in his cheeks. “Guess it’s turning out to be not so secret.”
The pleasure that floods through me is enough to catch me off guard. Not only did this man notice me before I crashed into his life, he was paying attention.
I grin. “Wow. I never would’ve guessed.”
He’s close enough for me to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the last traces of bruising beneath his eye.
That bruise should tug me back toward guilt and fear and everything ugly that’s happened lately.
But all I can think about is how beautiful he is standing here, looking unexpectedly vulnerable because he admitted one small truth.
“Well,” he says, one corner of his mouth hitching, “guess the cat’s out of the bag now.”
My belly flips.
Before I can come up with a response, he bends down and reaches into his bag. “Oh, I got you something.”
My brows lift. “You did?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, suddenly looking less sure of himself, which is very un-Knox like. “It’s not a big deal.”
Curiosity sparks through me as he holds out a crisp piece of blue fabric.
Unsure what it is, I take it carefully, unfolding it enough to see the white lettering stitched across the back. Everything inside me stills.
McNichols.
And then the number eleven beneath it.
I look up, startled by the unexpected gift. “You got me your jersey?”
One hand rises to rub the back of his neck. There’s something almost boyishly uncertain about the gesture, and I feel it straight down to my toes.
“I’d like you at the next game.”
My heart skips a beat. “Really?”
“I talked to Evelyn, and you can sit in the suite. It’s private and security’s tighter. There won’t be random fans around, so nobody will bother you.”
Even though his tone is steady, I hear the protectiveness threaded through it. I almost can’t believe he rearranged things to make space for me in his world. Just like the zoo, it’s unexpectedly thoughtful.
My gaze drops to the jersey again, and my fingers tighten around the fabric. This isn’t just a shirt. It’s him wanting me at his game and feeling comfortable enough to ask.
It’s him putting his name in my hands and saying, without quite saying it, you belong with me.
My throat constricts.
“I figured it’d be safer,” he adds more quietly. “After everything that’s happened.”
I look back up at him and realize that it’s one thing to be wanted by someone, and quite another to feel chosen.
My chest swells, feeling so full it almost aches.
“But if you’re not cool with the crowd,” he adds, studying me carefully, “you don’t have to go. I understand.”
“No. I want to watch your game.” I step closer with the jersey clutched in my hands.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The words come out sounding more heartfelt than I mean them to, and the look that crosses his face tells me he hears it too.
Before I can lose my nerve, I rise onto my toes and kiss him. It’s meant to be a quick peck. A thank-you more than anything else, but the second my mouth brushes across his, the gesture morphs into something more. His hand slides up to cup my cheek, anchoring me in place. But he doesn’t take over.
Unable to resist, I tilt my head and lean into him as his mouth strokes over mine.
The kiss unfurls slowly, every brush of his lips pulling me in deeper.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt as his thumb caresses my cheekbone.
When his tongue drags across the seam of my lips, a shiver dances down my spine.
My mouth parts without hesitation, and the first sweep of his tongue against mine is enough to have my breath catching in my throat.
Time stretches until I lose track of it.
His other hand settles at my waist, drawing me closer until my body presses against his harder one. Heat pools in the bottom of my belly at the feel of him and the low sound he makes as I return the kiss. By the time we break apart, my lips are tingling and I can barely think straight.
I glance at the jersey and then back up at him, my pulse racing. “And this is what you want me to wear?”
A smirk ghosts over his mouth. “That was the general idea.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
He frowns slightly. “Okay… what?”
Instead of answering, I take a step in retreat.
His eyes narrow with suspicion as I hook my fingers beneath the hem of my sweater and lift it.
The movement isn’t fast or careless. It’s gradual enough that his gaze drops and stays fastened there.
The fabric slides inch by inch over my stomach and ribs before rising higher until cool air kisses my collarbone.
With a tug, I pull it over my head and let it fall to the floor beside me.
Knox stills as my pulse thrashes beneath my skin.
My gaze stays locked on his as I reach for the waistband of my leggings.
The thick column of his throat works as he swallows, his attention locked on my every movement as I peel the fabric down my hips.
The expression on his face is enough to undo me all on its own.
Hunger, restraint, and disbelief are tangled together.
I step out of the leggings, leaving them in a puddle at my feet.
A hush falls over the room as my thumbs slide beneath the edge of one sock and roll it down, then the other, forcing myself to take my time even though my heart is thrashing so hard it’s almost painful.
His gaze drags over me again, as if he’s trying to take in all of me at once.
When I reach behind my back for the clasp of my bra, his mouth parts.
“Chey…”
The warning in his voice is mixed with desire.
I unhook it anyway before slipping the silky straps down my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.
His eyes flare before darkening. For one suspended second, I stand before him in nothing but a lacy scrap of underwear.
The desire that floods his expression gives me a secret little thrill before I catch the waistband with my thumbs and ease the panties down too, letting the last barrier slide away before stepping out of it.
His hand comes up to rub his jaw. “Damn, Hollywood.”
My skin feels hot all over as I lift the jersey, glance at him one last time, and carefully drag it over my head.
The blue fabric slips over my shoulders, breasts, then my stomach until it settles midway down my thighs.
The sleeves swallow my hands. His name is stitched across my back, and it almost feels like it’s burning through the material, branding my skin.
I smooth the front of it with my hands before peeking at him through my lashes. “So… what do you think?”
Instead of answering, he just stares. His gaze starts at my bare legs before climbing upward, taking in the jersey and the way it hangs on me. His jaw tightens. It’s the slowest, hottest look I’ve ever gotten from a man. And it’s enough to weaken my knees.
He releases a rough breath before dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You look…” His voice dies before he tries again. “You look fucking hot.”
“I do?”
“Yeah.” He takes one step toward me and then another. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to look hotter than you do in your leggings and cropped sweaters with your hair in a messy bun and not a hint of makeup. But I was wrong.”
Every single word ignites a firestorm inside me.
He stops close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. “In my jersey and nothing else? You’re sexy as hell.”
My heart stutters as he reaches out and hooks two fingers beneath the hem, brushing the fabric and then my skin. The contact is feather-light but still manages to send heat skittering up my thigh.
His hand glides a little higher before stopping as he allows the fabric to fall back into place. “It’s taking every ounce of self-control not to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the bedroom.”
A tremor slides through me. “Do it.”
I’ve never meant anything more in my life.
The muscle in his jaw tics a mad rhythm. “Chey…”
I step close enough for the front of the jersey to brush against his thighs. “In case you haven’t gotten the hint, McNichols… I want you.”
His eyes close for just a second. When they open again, they’re shades darker.
“Before we take this any further, I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.” He lifts a hand, like he wants to touch me again, then drags it through his hair instead. “I don’t want this to be a knee-jerk reaction to everything that’s happened.”
There it is again.
His restraint on full display.
But this time, I understand it better.
It’s not that he doesn’t want me. It’s that he knows if we take this step, neither of us will be able to pretend it isn’t happening anymore. It becomes real in a way we can’t ignore.
And somehow, knowing that only makes me want him more.
Because he’s not stopping out of indifference.
He’s stopping because this matters.
I matter.
That realization has emotion swelling within me.
We stand in the charged quiet, my body draped in his jersey, his gaze locked on mine, as if he’s still trying to decide whether he’s stronger than the temptation standing before him.
Maybe he is.
Then again, maybe he isn’t.
Either way, I understand something now that I didn’t before.
It’s not a question of if Knox wants me.
It’s a question of how much.