Page 54 of Triple Power Play 3
Aurora was right: this loft is a dream. It’s isolated but not lonely, and Ethan’s family has everything to do with that.
“Wife,” I shout over my shoulder. “Don’t let them throw out the furniture.”
Between now and when we play here next, which is in March—and with Aurora’s due date, who knows if we’ll be traveling—the loft is being remodeled, completely gutted.
“Okay,husband,” she yells from the kitchen, where she’s making coffee with the Viking.
I grab our bags from the bedroom closet and toss them on the bed. Then, exhausted by the mere thought of packing Aurora’s clothes and saying goodbye, I plop my ass onto the mattress and drop my face into my hands.
Tears burn behind my eyelids. Fuck, I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to return to LA. I don’t want to deal with the paparazzi or the LAPD. I’ll be forced to confront Kyle’s death and make arrangements regarding his estate.
I’d rather hide out in dreary New York.
I’d rather have nights with the three of us in this bed.
Someone snatches my baseball cap and ruffles my hair, breaking me from spiraling thoughts.
I glance up, and there he is, standing between my legs. I don’t know what else to say but, “Give me my hat, asshole.”
Ethan flips it around and puts it on, his thick, wavy hair escaping.
It looks good on him. “You never wear a hat.”
He takes it off and chucks it onto the bed. “Gives me a headache.”
“That’s ’cause you need a real haircut.”
“Arealhaircut? You mean a hundred-dollar haircut.”
“Yes, a twenty-dollar street barber is not taming that mop on your head.”
He smiles, and those gray eyes gleam. “Your wife likes it.”
“Joke’s getting old, just like you.”
He laughs on his way to the closet, returning with an armful of Aurora’s clothes and laying them over the foot of the bed. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t wanna leave?”
“No.” It comes out a little petulant, I won’t lie.
He flashes me a doubtful glance. “You wanna stay in this loft? With the cubicle walls and slanted floors? Are the donuts that good?”
“Yes, and I like this bed.” I hold his gaze.
He shakes his head. “Both of you, so fucking clingy.”
I don’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. He loves us and he knows it.
He comes between my legs again and slides his fingers through my hair. It’s new, and I don’t hate it—far from it. My heart skips a beat, and I have to force myself to breathe and not lean into his caress.
For once, I feel awkward. What to do with my hands? I know what Iwantto do with them, but if I touch him, he’ll probably avoid me for days. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.” My words come out breathless, and I’m sure I’m giving him thatlookhe called me out on.
Unsurprisingly, his cheeks flush, his arm drops to his side, and he averts his gaze.
I deflate, my shoulders drooping. “Why are you afraid of things being good?” We could be so fucking good together—more than just sex, no matter what he says.
“Ask yourself that.” He walks away to get another load of clothes or to avoid me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
