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When all the hugging is over, I link our fingers, marveling at how much softer and smaller her hand is than mine and how much I crave this innocuous contact. I keep her close as we weave through the bar. Alex holds up a hand when he sees us leaving. I nod but don’t stop to talk. This whole thing with Violet tonight has taken his mind off of the game, but soon he’ll want to sit down and figure out how to manage the next series.
We’re not alone on the elevator ride up to the penthouse floor, so I simply keep our hands joined, sliding my thumb back and forth over her knuckles. Charlene’s free hand is at her throat, fingering her pearls.
She exhales a shuddery breath when the last couple exits the elevator at the twentieth floor. When the doors close, I lift our twined hands and bring them to my lips. “Are you okay?”
She nods, but her bottom lip trembles, and her breath comes sharp and fast.
“You don’t seem okay,” I observe.
She opens her mouth to speak, but the doors slide open. A couple of women wearing Chicago jerseys fall into the elevator, giggling, clearly drunk. One of them pushes the button for the lobby while the other leans against the rails opposite us.
I’m annoyed at the interruption.
“Oh my God!” one of them shrieks. “You’re Darren Westinghouse! You were incredible tonight!”
The high-pitched, exclamation-point-laden yelling makes me want to pull out a roll of duct tape, but instead I smile and tuck Charlene in tighter to my side. This is part of the reason I’ve never tried to be better than I am. Because it draws unwanted attention. Stay solidly average and out of the limelight, and people don’t recognize you on the street. Play better than most, and people start to notice.
I’ve been content to be Alex’s wingman for the past six years. He loves the accolades and thrives on it. He manages it better than I can. I don’t want this overwhelming level of notice. I don’t want these drunk screaming girls, looking for autographs. I don’t want to be nice and open and friendly. I want privacy and Charlene. I want some semblance of normal in a life that’s never been that way.
One of the girls roots around in her purse for a pen so I can sign something for her. Neither of them acknowledge Charlene. It’s as if she doesn’t even exist. So when one of them finally manages to find a pen and her game ticket, I tip Charlene’s chin up and press an unexpected kiss to her lips.
“This will just take a moment,” I murmur, lips still touching hers.
“Okay.” It’s more breath than word.
I just want to be alone with her. I want these fans and my worries to disappear. I want to drown in her taste and her scent and her soft, sweet moans.
But first I need to sign some shit.
The women gawk unapologetically as I tuck a loose tendril of Charlene’s hair behind her ear. It’s unnecessary. Her hair is perfectly fine the way it is without me messing with it. I just want a reason to touch her, to indicate on some base level that she’s mine, and I’m hers.
I sign their tickets, then sign the back of their jerseys, even though one has Ballistic and the other has Waters, which makes sense since they’re the star players on the team. Thankfully the elevator chimes. I reach for Charlene’s hand, tugging her along as I hit the close door button and slip out into the hall. I don’t want them following us. When the door stays closed, I exhale a sigh of relief and walk quickly toward our room, rooting in my pocket for the key card, but Charlene is already prepared. She swipes it across the sensor, and I throw it open, ushering her inside.
The door barely has a chance to lock before Charlene launches herself at me. She forces me back against the wall—which is no easy feat considering I have a good six to eight inches on her and I outweigh her by a hundred pounds. I’m attributing it partly to her catching me off guard.
Her fingernails cut into my shoulders as her mouth connects with mine, and she tries to hoist herself up. I spin so she’s against the wall and lift her by her ass, positioning her so my erection is finally where it’s supposed to be, albeit covered by clothes. I plan to remedy that soon.
She rolls her hips and moans, head hitting the wall as she arches. Her nails bite my scalp, and her teeth sink into my bottom lip. Charlene is a lot of things in the bedroom—uncertain, curious, semi-adventurous, adorably sort-of commanding when she’s decked out in leather—but she’s rarely, if ever, aggressive like she is now, which tells me I’ve either pushed her too far, or something is wrong.
