Page 43 of Whirlwind
“I put him in his crate before I came over. It was his bedtime; I’m sure he’s knocked out.”
“Is your house locked up?”
“Yeah, why?” I pop my head off his chest to look up at him.
“Can you stay? Not for sex,” he adds quickly. “I’d like to hold you, though. Be close. I’m not sure I can sleep tonight if I can’t keep eyes on you.”
“Do you sleep with your eyes open?”
“No.” He laughs.
“It’s a valid question. You could be one of the twenty percent who do.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank fuck for that. How creepy would it be to roll over and have a snoring man staring at you?”
“I don’t snore, either,” he protests.
“Look at you ticking off green flag after green flag,” I tease.
“Lack of snoring is a green flag?”
“I don’t know, but it’s certainly not a red one.” I shift on his lap, turning to face him more fully. My breasts brush against his chest, and I notice the twitch of his dick at the same time I notice his slight grimace. He probably doesn’t want to be turned on by me—not after what I’ve shared with him.
Tyson Murphy, a big, bad hockey player, is a gentleman, it seems. It makes me like him even more.
“So? Will you stay? Or we could stay at your house, if that’s more comfortable for you,” he offers, and now it’s my face with a frown.
“No. My bed wasn’t a safe space after Derik. I…I don’t know if I could sleep with you there with me.”
“Okay,” he says, brushing some hair from my forehead and pressing a quick kiss there. “Can I walk you home, at least?”
“No. That’s not what I want,” I say, leaning closer another inch. “I want to try and stay here. No promises, though.”
“I’m not asking for promises, Kit. Just communication, remember? If you can’t handle it, you wake me up and I’ll walk you home. No questions asked. It’s a lot to ask of you. Fuck, I haven’t even taken you out on a date and I’m already asking you to stay over.”
“You’ve taken me out to eat a couple of times.”
“Those weren’t dates, Kit. That was just me feeding you.”
“Isn’t that what dates are, though?”
“No,” he says with a frown. “Whoever taught women to expect bare minimums was an asshole. Why are you laughing?”
“You’re a feminist. I kinda fucking love that.”
“My mom is going to love you,” he says, weaving an arm around my waist so he can pick me up as he stands. “Do you want a dry shirt to sleep in?”
“I thought you jock types offered your sweaters.” I wrap my arms around his neck, and it feels natural. Coming over here tonight, I thought I’d be tripping up over letting him in and sharing my past with him. Instead, I’ve only been tripping over how easy it is to be myself.
Proof that sometimes facing your biggest fears pays off, I guess.
“You get an A-plus for calling it a sweater and not a jersey. You can have one, if you want, but it’s going to hang down to your knees and the material is ridiculously stiff.”
“Can I pick?”
“Sure,” he says, walking us straight into his closet and setting me down on my feet. Slowly, I spin in a circle, taking it all in. There’re a lot of clothes packed in here. The hangers are full—mostly of suits, which I know is what they wear before every game. There are also stacks of jeans, sweatpants, shorts, shirts. Stacks upon stacks.
