Page 59 of Bagging the Blueliner
Hannah spending the nightturned into two days of us holed up in my penthouse. Thank God for a mini-Christmas break for the league. We had nowhere to go and got lost in each other.
Most of our time was spent in bed. I attempted to work out, but then I would catch sight of Hannah wearing nothing but one of my T-shirts, which completely derailed me every time.
She looked incredible. My shirt hung loosely over her body, falling to her knees, the neck hole so large her bare shoulder fell through it. The knowledge that she wore nothing underneath drove me wild. Her hair was tied up on top of her head with a rubber band she’d found in my junk drawer, and the makeup had been washed off her face days ago.
This was a version of Hannah no one else saw.
It wasn’t lost on me that she loosened up after our unconventional therapy session. My gut twisted thinking abouthow deflated Hannah had looked walking off the elevator that night. It blew my perception of her right out of the water.
My Hannah was strong.
My Hannah took no prisoners.
My Hannah didn’t give a shit what others thought about her.
Wait. When did she becomemyHannah?
Maybe it was the fact that she was the only woman to sleep over at my place—unknowingly and willingly—that had me claiming ownership of her. That, and Hannah making herself at home. It felt like she belonged here. Was that crazy?
Yes, it’s crazy. You know you have no future with her.
I was about to tell my brain where to shove it when Hannah waltzed into the living room. She’d spent days in my clothes, but damn if it didn’t turn me on every time I saw her.
Plopping ungracefully onto the couch, she turned on the TV. Glancing over her shoulder, to where I stood in the kitchen gripping the marble countertop so tightly I worried it might crack, she smiled. “Movie night?”
This was so fucking domestic. And surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.
“Sure. Want me to order some dinner?” I offered.
“That sounds great. What were you thinking?”
Pulling out my phone, I tapped a food delivery app and scrolled the available choices. Honing in on one restaurant, I asked Hannah, “How about Mexican?”
She moaned. “Yes! I’ll take a chicken quesadilla. Don’t forget to get some chips, and don’t skimp on the guac.”
Ordering myself steak fajitas, I paid with the tap of a button and moved to join Hannah on the couch. “All right. What are we watching?”
Curling into my side, she looked up at me. “You’re gonna let me pick?”
I didn’t watch much TV and rarely had time to make it to the movie theater, so whatever she chose would likely be new to me. “Sure. Why not?”
Hannah continued to stare at me. “It’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Gripping her thigh, I growled in her ear, “Do we need to have another therapy session?”
Her laugh warmed my insides. “No, but thanks for the offer. I was only thinking how strange it was to be given total control over the movie choice. When I have movie nights with the girls, there’s always a debate.”
“Are you saying you view me as one of the girls?”
Placing her hand onto my lap, she squeezed my dick. “Definitely not one of the girls.”
“Careful,” I warned. “If you want to watch this movie or eat tonight, you’ll keep your hands to yourself for a while.”
“You’re no fun.” She pretended to pout by sticking her lower lip out.
“Pick a movie, Hannah.”
Sighing, she pulled her hand away, clicking the remote through my various streaming services. Finally, she settled on a movie where the preview showcased what I would call a pretty boy and an attractive girl. There was no denying what kind of movie it was.
