“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be. It’s just the truth.”
I hear rustling on her end, like she’s settling into bed. Sheets shifting. A soft exhale.
The image appears unbidden—Winnie in pajamas, probably something soft and pink with maybe a little lace at the hem. Her golden hair fanned out across white pillowcases. Long legs tucked under the covers. Phone pressed to her ear, her mouth probably adorably smirking at my lack of conversational skills.
I bet her skin is soft. The kind of soft that comes from lotions and routines and all those products women keep in their bathrooms.
I shove the thought away hard enough to give myself mental whiplash.
This is Winnie. Off-limits in about seventeen different ways. And I’m lying here in the dark like some creep, imagining what she looks like in bed. I shove the thought away.
“You still there?” Her voice is sleepy now, a little raspy, and that doesn’t help anything.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Still here.”
“Thank you for tonight,” she says. “For coming to the bar. I know that’s not your thing.”
“You asked.”
“I did. And you said yes, which surprised me.” Another pause. “You’re full of surprises lately.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m notsurprising. I’m predictable. Boring. The guy who sits in the corner and doesn’t talk.
But she makes me want to be different.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I should let you get some rest. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Good.” Her voice softens. “Goodnight, tough guy.”
Tough guy.
The words hit me somewhere unexpected. She has a nickname for me now, and one that’s not “The Wall” or “Brick” or any of the other names the guys throw around. Something just for her. Just for us.
“Goodnight, Win.”
Neither of us hangs up immediately. There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, weighted—and I can hear her breathing on the other end. Soft and steady.
“Banks?”
“Yeah?”
“Tonight… at the bar…” She hesitates. “Was that okay? Me sitting on your lap like that? I know it was kind of… a lot.”
A lot. That’s one way to describe it.
My body responds to the memory before my brain can catch up. The weight of her on my thighs. The warmth of her back against my chest. My hand against her waist. The way she shifted and squirmed and drove me slowly insane.
I’m hardening again. Just from thinking about it. Just from hearing her voice.
I shift on the couch, adjusting my position, but it doesn’t help. The ache is building, insistent and demanding. I press the heel of my hand against myself through my pants, trying to relieve the pressure.
It only makes it worse.
“It was fine,” I manage, my voice rougher than I intended.
