by Meghan Quinn
I shake my head and drag my hand over my face. “You’re never going to agree with me on this, are you?”
“Not really, since it’s my job to make you look good. But I’ll agree with the relationship stuff. I don’t think anyone should have their relationship publicized unless they want it to be. It’s hard enough finding someone to fall in love with, and the last thing you need is to have it show up on all the major media outlets.”
“Are you just saying that because of our situation?” I ask, turning toward her.
She shakes her head. “I would say that about anyone.”
I move my arm along the back of the couch and pick up a piece of her hair, circling my finger around it. “How do you feel about secret relationships?”
“Tried it once, didn’t like it.”
“You did?” I ask, all of a sudden becoming a jealous motherfucker. “With who?”
“Something stupid when I was young. Got burned in college.” She looks down at her folded hands.
Now I really want to know who it was, but I’m not going to push it, because from the look in her eyes, it’s going to kill the mood. So instead, I ask, “So you’d never do it again?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to.”
“Why?” I ask, completely forgetting about the reason I brought her back to my apartment in the first place—to watch a show. Now that I have her here, all I want to do is talk. Which is seriously weird as fuck. For so many years, I haven’t needed to nor wanted to talk to anyone. I’m comfortable with silence, and have never felt it necessary to air my thoughts. And yet, here I am with this woman who has turned on a switch inside me.
“I like dating.” She leans her head against the back of the couch. Our knees are inches apart, our bodies so damn close, I wish I could pull her onto my lap and run little circles across her knee as she talks. “I like getting dressed up, being taken out, spoiled for a night. I like being able to show off who I’m with, let everyone know that the guy who’s holding my hand is taken.”
I use that moment to reach across and take her hand in mine, letting her hair fall at her shoulder. I run my thumb along the back of her hand and then flip it over to do the same thing on her palm. She lets me, relaxing into my touch.
“I don’t want to hide, I want to be proud. I want to be able to brag. I want to be able to live my life without having to worry about any sort of repercussions.”
The hope that was building inside of me ever since she said yes to coming over quickly diminishes after her speech.
“Where does that leave us?”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
KATE
Once again, I’m not making smart decisions, but when it comes to Walker, it seems as though all the logic I possess is taken from me and I make choices that I should never even consider, like going back to his place to “watch a show.” I think both of us knew we weren’t going to be watching any damn show.
And yet, here I am, on his couch, talking about secret relationships.
Is that what he wants with me? A secret relationship? It doesn’t sound appealing to me at all, especially with Walker.
If I were going to be with Walker Rockwell, actually date him, then I would want everyone to know that he’s mine, that he’s off the market. I wouldn’t want women thinking he’s still eligible to have their wild way with.
No, he’d be all mine, and I would stake my claim.
But that’s not an option when it comes to us. Hell, us isn’t an option at all.
I sigh and say, “I never should’ve come back here. I don’t know why I did.”
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stares intently at me, making me almost shrink in place under those thunderous eyes.
I go to get up from the couch, but Walker stops me, still holding my hand in his. “Sit.”
“Walker, this was a bad idea.”
“Sit the fuck down, Kate.”
Seeing him start to lose some of his composure, I sit back down, but farther away this time, giving us at least a foot of space between us. I also steal my hand back and set it on my lap. My back is ramrod straight and I’m extremely uncomfortable, wondering what he’s going to say next.
He pushes his hand through his dark hair and leans back on the couch, frustration oozing from his every movement.
What would it be like to run my fingers over his stomach? Would my touch affect him the way I think his touch would just about destroy me?
From the way he was just looking at me, I’m going to guess yes.
The silence is killing me, so I break it and ask, “Do you, uh, want to watch the show?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I awkwardly nod. “Cool, so . . . uh, what are we doing?”
“No fucking idea.” He moves his head to the side. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, and you have an early flight tomorrow, which means I should probably go.”
“Or,” he says, looking away while his hands go to his head. He mutters something under his breath that I can’t make out.
“Or what?” I ask, my pulse picking up as he stands and walks to his entryway, where he presses a few buttons on the alarm system. “What are you doing?” Instead of answering me, he walks over to my side of the couch and holds out his hand. I stare at it and then up at him. “What’s going on?”
“Come with me.” He gestures for me to get up.
“You’re going to have to tell me where we’re going, because I’m pretty sure you just set your alarm for the night.”
“I did.”
“Are you trapping me?”
“The code is 4 5 7 8. Leave whenever you want. Just come with me now.”
I memorize that code for my own sanity, because right about now, I have a sinking suspicion that he’s not about to show me the view in better detail. And when he starts to take me down a dark hallway, my suspicions are confirmed.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he brings me into his master bedroom.
The room is full of modern furniture, a giant bed with a navy-blue comforter and gray bedding. White walls flank the space, along with a long stretch of windows just like his living room. I’m assuming they’re tinted since there isn’t a curtain in sight. The room is clean, crisp, something I’d expect from Walker. No frills, no unnecessary items such as throw pillows or decorative pieces.
When he turns to me, he says, “Bathroom is to the right. I’ll grab you a shirt. There’s a new toothbrush in the left-hand drawer.”
Uh, what?
Nervously, I say, “That’s great and all, Walker, but why would I need those items? I’m not staying the night. Are you insane?”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink as he stares into my soul.
“Stay.”
It’s one word, it’s all he’s giving me, but it packs one hell of a punch.
The grit in his voice, the despair, as if me leaving will destroy him.
What am I supposed to do with that?
“Walker,” I say softly, looking down at the floor because his gaze is too intense. If I look at his soulful eyes any longer, I can see myself making some bad decisions. “I can’t stay.”
“I won’t touch you. Just stay, keep me company. Talk to me.”
“And then what?”
“And then I go to the West Coast and you stay here, in Chicago.”
“I mean, and then what happens to us?”
He shrugs and reaches up to move his thumb across my cheek. “I have no fucking clue, probably nothing, but just give me this night. Give me one night where I get to stare at you without feeling as though I’m going to get caught. Let me enjoy your voice without wondering if one of my teammates is reading me like an open book.”
His voice pleads.
His eyes beg.
I’m powerless in this moment.
My mouth goes dry, like a desert.
“And then after, we can part ways. Be friends.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he answers. “It’s what should be done.”
I know he’s right, but I still feel the sting. It’s stupid to think, but I almost wish that he would fight for the possibility of us.
I can’t ask him to do that.
Nor can I afford to fight for it myself.
So, I relent and ask, “Just talking?”
He nods. “It can’t be more than that. If it goes any further, there’s no way I can only ask for one night.”
I understand.
Nodding, I let out a deep breath and say, “Get me a T-shirt. I’ll start getting ready for bed.”
A confusing smile passes over his lips, almost as if he’s sad and happy at the same time. I feel the same way. Excited to have this extra time with him, but sad that this is it. After tonight, we’re putting a stop to this insanity.
It won’t be easy, but I can do it.
At least, that’s what I hope.
I spend some time in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and taking off my makeup. I switch into his Bobbies T-shirt jersey, which is entirely too large on me and perfect as a nightgown. Before I leave the bathroom, I bring the fabric of his shirt up to my nose and take in a deep breath, letting the scent of him fill me up. Woodsy and all male with a hint of fresh—just what I would’ve expected. I hope he doesn’t want this shirt back, because given that I can’t have him, this is coming home with me.
Glancing in the mirror one more time, I take in my fresh face and wonder if he’ll appreciate me without makeup. There’s only one way to find out. I open the bathroom door to find Walker sitting on his bed in only a pair of sweatpants, staring down at his phone. When he glances up, his eyes soften, and he stands, setting his phone on the nightstand. He walks up to me, his eyes never leaving mine, and cups my cheek. Softly he passes his thumb over my skin and gently says, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”
I press my lips together and lean into his touch. “You can’t say things like that to me, Walker.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want. If that means I call you beautiful, then you accept that, because you are.”
“And what about the touching?” I ask, my eyes fluttering open.
“That I’m going to try to control myself.” He brings his hand down to his side and stares at me for a couple more moments before going to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Unsure of what to do, whether I should sit down in his bed or not, I stand in the middle of his room and wait. I don’t want to be too presumptuous, even though I know that’s where we’ll be hanging out.
The water turns off and the sound of his toothbrush banging against the sink sounds through the door, followed by him opening the bathroom door and turning off the light. That’s when I get a good look at him under the dim light coming from his nightstand.
His sweatpants hang low on his waist, showing his carved body, the perfect V where his hips narrow. His abs trail up his stomach to his thick pecs and dark-colored nipples. His arms, works of art, are full of sinew intertwining and shifting whenever he moves. Ink covers the side of his ribs and I can’t help but be drawn to the dark patterns scattered over his skin. I want to trace my fingers over the art, ask him what every tattoo stands for and why he only chose his left side. I want to know his story. The why behind the façade he shows the world. And why I’m lucky enough to see the warmer side of him. And I hate that all those wants cannot be realized.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and guiding me to the bed, where he pushes back the covers and gestures for me to get in. I scoot across the mattress awkwardly, keeping my butt covered up, so I don’t flash Walker in the process.
Before getting into the bed with me, he turns the light off, shucks his sweatpants and then slides under the sheets with me.
I take a moment to let the softness of the sheets slide across my skin. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so smooth, so comfortable. Money really can buy nice things, a bed with soft bedsheets being one of them.
How many women have thought the same thing in my position? Have they felt the plushness of his mattress, the silkiness of his sheets? Probably. The man isn’t a saint, nor would he ever be celibate, not with the athletic adrenaline that runs through him on a daily basis. There’s no way he’s stuck using his hand and his hand alone for pleasure.
Still . . . has he brought anyone back here?
No, it doesn’t matter, none of that matters.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you always sleep just in your boxer briefs?”
He shifts the comforter and sticks his arm out of the blankets while stuffing the other under his pillow, propping his head up so he can get a better look at me.
“Usually naked.”
“Would’ve figured that.” I chuckle. “With these kinds of sheets, I think everyone would want to be naked.”
His face sharpens from my comment, his imagination probably going to where mine was—being naked, right now.
“What about you? Do you usually sleep in just a nightgown or something like that?”
I chuckle. “A nightgown? No. And if you’re thinking a sleeping cap too, that’s a big no.” The corner of his mouth lifts and I feel privileged that I can pull at least a small reaction of humor from him. “I’m a naked girl. I love sleeping bare.”
I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs, the sound of him swallowing hard completely obvious.
“You sleep naked?”
I nod, slightly loving the tortured look in his eyes. “Always. I love it. It’s freeing. My only fear is if there were a fire in my building, I would have to quickly throw something on so no one sees my personal business. It’s why I always keep a robe at the foot of my bed—you know, for emergencies.”
“Makes sense.” His voice cracks. “Since we both prefer sleeping naked, maybe we do that now.”
“Stop.” I playfully push his chest. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“It’s been hard for a while, babe,” he says, his innuendo slipping over me like a warm blanket, heating me up inside.
I bite my bottom lip and keep my hands where they are, under my pillow, and I promise myself to keep them there.
Ignoring his comment, I say, “Sleeping in one of the players’ beds . . . Hmm, I wonder what other kind of bad decisions I can make tonight.”
“I can help you with a list,” he says, sliding closer.
Oh God.
No, I don’t need help because my mind is already creating that list itself.
Walker naked.
My hand on Walker’s erection, stroking him up and down as he lies flat on his back, the cords of muscle in his neck throbbing with my touch.
Walker above me, his pecs flexing as he pulses in and out of me, his strong body taking over.
The feel of his scruff along my inner thighs, scraping and burning my skin.
His cock in my mouth, his balls in my hands as I tease and torment him . . .
“Where did your mind go?” he asks, pulling me from my wicked reverie. I stick my arm out of the covers as well, needing an outlet for the heat building up inside of me.
“Somewhere,” I answer. I need to change the subject, because this throbbing sensation that’s eclipsing my thought process needs to die down before I lose all control and throw myself at the man next to me. “When did you know you were good enough to play professionally?”
His eyes sear into me, clearly not liking the change of subject. It’s a safe conversation, one that I know won’t get us into trouble.
“I always wanted to play professionally because I knew I was good, but it wasn’t until my freshman year in college when I was killing the ball and throwing every runner out at second that I realized I had the potential to take this all the way, which only made me work harder.”
“You were drafted after your junior year in college, right?”
“Checking up on me?” he asks, his eyes turning soft with humor.
“I always do my researc
h. I find that it helps me do my job better.”
He nods and says, “Yeah, I was drafted and played in the minors for a while, bouncing back and forth between the big leagues. It was torture there for a moment, feeling as though I got my break, only to be sent back down again. But finally, I earned that starting position. I was amazing in college, but I was only average professionally, which was a gut check. I had to work harder than I ever thought possible.” He shifts and adds, “I think that’s one of the reasons why I’ve lost the fun of it all, because my love for the sport became a job, a job I was having a hard time performing at.”
“It came easy to you before.”
“Like second nature, but it’s different when it’s a profession. There’s more pressure—everyone is depending on you, not only your teammates but the staff, the fans, the front office, the people who helped me get me where I am today. It turned into something more than just playing ball.”
“I can understand that,” I say softly, wanting to reach out to him. “And now, how do you feel about it?”
“I think I’m finding that love for the game again.”
“Because of me, right?” I wink, but he grows serious.
“You reminded me it’s just a game. So, yeah, maybe.”
I wasn’t expecting him to say that, nor was I expecting his answer to have such an impact on my already fluttering nerves.
“Did you play any sports?” he asks, pulling the attention to me so I don’t have much time to think about his response.
“I want to say yes and impress you, but I’ve never been super coordinated. As you could tell from my attempt at playing against you.”
“You were decent.”
“You’re lying.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I am.”
I poke his chest again, and this time, my finger jabs pure muscle. God, he’s so strong.
So sexy.
“I will say this,” I add. “I’ll try anything that’s put in front of me, though. I don’t have a problem embarrassing myself. I’m the girl who volunteers to play volleyball at the company party but sucks the entire time.”