Page 60 of Her Name in Red
Just when I've resigned myself to a sleepless few hours on this torture device she calls a couch, I hear soft footsteps approach.
I open my eyes to find Maren standing over me.
Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the ends just barely covering her nipples. Her blood-red manicure gleams even in the dim light as she extends her hand toward me, silent as a fucking ghost.
She doesn't say a word. Just reaches down, grabs my wrist with surprising strength, and tugs.
She walks backward, leading me like I'm some animal on a leash, her eyes never leaving mine.
When we reach the bed, she releases me, climbing onto the mattress with the grace of a predator. She doesn't say a word, just settles on her side, her back to me, leaving enough space that her invitation is clear.
I stand there for a second, staring at the curve of her spine, the dip at her waist, the swell of her ass.
Sliding in behind her, the mattress dips under my weight. I pull her body to my own, snaking my arm around her waist to keep her flush against me. She doesn't resist.
I press a kiss to her hair before nuzzling into her neck. Now I can take a fucking nap.
Chapter 21
Riggs
Iwake up slow, like swimming through molasses. The warmth of Maren's body against mine is so fucking perfect that for a second I consider just drifting back into unconsciousness. But something nags at me, some responsibility I'm forgetting.
My eyes crack open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through her blackout curtains. The red glow of her digital clock catches my attention: 6:04 PM.
“Shit,” I mutter, the word barely a breath against her hair.
Practice started at five. Coach is gonna have my ass on a platter, served with a side of suicide drills until I puke. Missing practice this close to playoffs is basically team suicide.
But I don't move. Not yet.
Instead, I watch the gentle rise and fall of Maren's breathing, the way her dark hair spills across the pillow like an oil slick. She's deadly even in sleep, her lips slightly parted, those killer hands tucked beneath her cheek. There's something fucking mesmerizing about seeing her like this. Vulnerable, if someone like Maren could ever truly be vulnerable.
Carefully, I extract my arm from around her waist, freezing when she stirs. She makes a small sound in her throat,something between a sigh and a growl, before settling back into stillness. My chest tightens at the sound. It's the most unguarded thing I've ever heard from her.
I ease off the mattress, watching her for any sign of waking. Nothing. She's out cold.
The floor is cold against my bare feet as I pad toward the kitchen. Her apartment is sparse. The place feels temporary, like she could vanish without leaving a trace at any moment.
In the kitchen, I pull open her fridge, wincing at the barren shelves. Half a carton of almond milk, a jar of pickles, some questionable takeout containers, and a sad-looking apple. Jesus Christ. Does she even eat when I’m not here?
I grab a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. My phone sits on the counter where I tossed it earlier, the screen lighting up with notifications as I pick it up.
Six missed calls from Coach. Four texts from teammates.
Ignoring them all, I pull up a delivery app and scroll through the options.
I settle on Thai food. She mentioned liking it once, weeks ago. I order enough for four people. Pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, some soup with a name I can't pronounce but looks good as shit from the picture. There’s gotta be something here she’ll like.
I down the water in one long gulp and crush the bottle in my fist. The hollow plastic crackles like kindling under my grip. Twenty-five minutes until the food arrives.
Moving back through her apartment, I make sure she’s still asleep before heading into the bathroom.
The door shuts with a soft click behind me. Maren's bathroom is like the rest of her place. Minimal, but with small touches that scream her name. The black shower curtain. The single potted succulent on the window ledge that somehow isn'tdead. The neat row of products on the edge of her tub, all in dark packaging like she's allergic to anything bright.
Turning on the shower, I let steam fill the small space before stepping under the spray. The water pressure is decent, hot enough to sting my skin in a way that makes me feel alive. I close my eyes, letting it pound against my shoulders, working out the knots that come from literally everything in my life.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rolling my neck. I should be on the ice right now, not in the shower. But I can't bring myself to regret it.
