Chapter 17 Boone
“I don’t have anything sexy to wear,” Rosie says softly, her voice tinged with nerves.
“What do you mean?” I can’t see the problem. Because what she’s wearing right now is sexy. Her tight, fitted jeans hug her smaller curves, and the long-sleeved purple t-shirt she’s got on is the shade that makes her skin glow the brightest and brings out the warmth in her eyes.
If I’m being honest, I’d prefer her naked, but this isn’t that kind of dance. At least, not yet. This is about showing my wife that she’s the most attractive woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. And that she has absolutely nothing to doubt.
Maybe this is all temporary. But in the meantime, I want her to understand that I’m not looking at anyone but her.
“I mean that I don’t have any lingerie here,” she explains, glancing away shyly. “Everything’s back at my apartment in New York City.”
The mention of lingerie has my mind spiraling. Now all I can think about is a whole drawer—hell, maybe a whole closet—of hers dedicated to lace and satin just sitting in the bedroom that's next to the one that I’ve been sleeping in. Stuff she’s bought for some lucky guy to see some day.
My jaw tightens at the thought, and my hands drop to adjust my sweatpants as the images start crowding my sex-deprived brain.
Celibacy sounded like a good idea when I was trying to repair my reputation but now that I’m married to Rosie, the temptation to break that streak is killing me.
Her gaze flicks to my lap, and then the little temptress wets her lips like she’s thinking about getting a taste of me.
Fuck me.
If she keeps doing that, I’m not going to make it through this without losing my grip and touching her.
“So don’t wear anything,” I say. My voice comes out like gravel.
Her eyes narrow at me for a moment before she laughs softly. “Boone, please be serious. I’m not doing that.”
“You wore next to nothing last time you gave me a dance,” I point out.
Her cheeks flush just a little. She tugs on a piece of her hair like she’s considering it, then shakes her head.
“I… no.” She laughs again. “I’m not doing that.”
Don’t get shy on me now.
I’m starting to like this side of her—the loosened-up, unwound version of Rosie that’s been surfacing since we left the city and all the weight that her career and our fake marriage add to her shoulders.
We’re not going back to scripted, PR focused conversations. I want to get deeper with her. And that includes stripping away everything that she uses to put space between us.
I stand, reaching behind my head and yanking off my long-sleeved t-shirt in one fluid motion. It’s a team shirt with my name scrawled across the back, my number on both sides, and the Mayhem’s logo front and center.
This is what I wore for the trip out here.
A simple pair of sweatpants and some merch gear, casual and comfortable because I knew I’d need to rest up on the ride.
Now, I’m glad I dressed this way, and took that nap on the train because I’m going to need every ounce of stamina tonight and she can wear this.
I hold the shirt out to her, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. “Put this on if you want something to wear.”
She blinks up at me, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but then she steps forward and takes it from my hand.
“You want me to wear your shirt?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “That and nothing else underneath.”
“Nothing?” she squeaks out.
“Nothing, Rosie.”
She clears her throat and nods. “Okay.” Then does as she’s told, pulling off her shirt to reveal a thin, black, silk bra and soft breasts.
My eyes track her every movement, and when she slips my shirt over her head, I already miss seeing her skin. Then her hands disappear under the hem of the shirt, unclasping the bra and tossing it aside, hidden from my view.
Next, she unbuttons, unzips and shimmies out of her jeans.
I can’t see much—my shirt is so oversized on her small frame it falls nearly to her knees like a dress—but damn, I’m enjoying the view of her undressing for me.
The moonlight streams in through the window, bouncing off the lake and catching on her bare legs, messy hair, and that sharp little chin of hers.
Rosie looks like something out of a dream I once had before I knew what beauty really was, and all I can do is sit here and watch, wondering how I’m the lucky guy who married her.
When she finishes, she stands in front of me, legs peeking out from underneath my shirt, looking shy as she tucks a lock of her dark blonde hair behind her ear.
“You know, I looked up photos of Anastasia before we did that interview together,” she says softly. “I wanted to see how she dressed.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” I snap.
She bites down on her bottom lip. “Because my dad told me not to wear that sweatshirt I wore to your first game. He said I needed to look more like someone you’d actually marry.”
Her words hit me like a slap.
I’m not sure what pisses me off more: the fact that she listened to her dad’s bullshit advice, that she bothered to compare herself to my ex-fiancée—a woman I willingly broke up with—or that she followed through with it instead of asking me what I liked.
Suddenly, it makes sense why she hasn’t worn my gear since that first game, the one where I spotted her in the crowd with my name across her back. And why she’s shown up to every game in dresses and heels instead of the jersey of the man she married.
It never really bothered me that Anastasia didn’t wear my jersey.
If I’m being frank, I’ve never thought about it until now.
She missed most of my games due to events around the city or her travel schedule.
But now I’m wondering if it was because she never felt like mine the way Rosie does.
Or maybe I never let myself care, because somewhere deep down, I knew it was never going to last.
Leaning forward, I grip the hem of my shirt on her and tug so that I have her attention.
“From now on, you wear my clothes to my games. Nothing you bought online. Not some knockoff shit. Don’t get a shirt from the stadium gift store.
My stuff, straight out of my closet. Go into my room, even if I’m not home, and take whatever you want before my game. Do you understand?”
She swallows and nods. “Okay,” she whispers.
I sit back in my seat, spreading my legs wide and taking in her beauty. My voice dips lower.
“Good girl. Now walk over to the doorway and crawl to me.”
Her brows knit together. “Crawl?”
I smile lazily, “Yes. Crawl.”
My gaze locks on her as her eyes flick over my bare chest, the contracting of my abs and my exposed torso.
I know exactly what she’s seeing—the way my sweatpants aren’t hiding my arousal, the thick, hard line of my cock already stirring beneath them, ready for her skin to be back on mine.
Every nerve in my body is on edge like we’ve been waiting for this moment for months.
“On your hands and knees. Consider it punishment for thinking I’d ever want you to dress like my ex and for listening to your father when it comes to my preferences. You want to know what I like? I like you. And if you ever doubt that, ask me.”
Her lips part in a soft “oh,” and for a second, I think I’ve lost her. The fight flickers in her eyes, the same fight she’s shown me every time she’s tried to stay safely inside her carefully drawn lines and lawyer-speak.
But then, just like that night in the club, she surprises me. She turns, walks to the doorway, then drops to her hands and knees and starts to crawl.
The sight of her moving toward me, her hair falling in front of her face, the hem of my shirt swaying with every slow inch, turns me on in ways I didn’t think was possible.
When she reaches me, she kneels at my feet, her hands sliding up my legs to rest on my knees before she moves them higher and squeezes my thighs so firmly that I feel it in the back of my neck.
Her grip has my cock at attention and if she moved just a little higher, she would touch it. I wonder how it’d feel to have her slender fingers wrapped around me squeezing.
She stops there, pausing, her eyes lifting to meet mine. Waiting for my permission and approval.
I’m going to give her so much more than that.
“Good girl,” I murmur, cupping her chin softly and tilting her face upward until her wide, pretty eyes meet mine.
My thumb brushes against her lips, lingering for just a moment before I press it past the seam. Her mouth opens willingly until she’s wrapped around me, sucking down on one digit with a tiny hum of pleasure. Her cheeks hollow, her tongue flicks over the bed of my thumb and all I can do is watch.
“Soft, pretty lips,” I say, my voice low as my hand moves to her throat, fingers wrapping around the slender column of her neck.
“A neck made to hold.” I let my hand tighten just enough to feel the thrum of her pulse beneath my palm, and then I trail my fingers upward, tangling in her golden hair. “And this hair? Made for pulling.”
I tug gently, tilting her head back and exposing the pale curve of her throat.
Her pulse is racing beneath her skin. I’m dying to leave marks there that show she’s mine; to claim every inch of her so that when she looks in the mirror tomorrow, she can’t pretend this is all fake. That she feels something for me too.
But instead, I loosen my grip and lean in close to her ear.
“But I won’t. Not yet,” I whisper. “Now show me how you give a lap dance.”
Her breathing picks up, but she nods, releases my thighs, and rises to her feet.
There’s a hint of nervousness in her eyes, but there’s something bolder there too now.
It’s the same resolve she had in the club.
Like she knows she’s doing something that’s pushing her out of her comfort zone, but she wants to do it anyway.
She needs this. She craves it. It just takes a little coaxing and deserved praise to bring this side of her out.