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Holding his face in my hands, I kiss him, taking all of him in. I need to feel that this isn’t a fantasy. I need to feel how Nick always makes me feel, confident, sexy, and loved.
Chapter 44
Nick
Seeing Lenny on my porch is surreal.
It washed away any doubt that whatever I felt between us wasn’t real.
She loves me.
That’s all I need to know.
I trust her fully and completely. I don’t even care if she blatantly told Jeremy about my injury. All I need to know is that she loves me just as much as I love her.
“Lenny.” I pull my mouth away from hers.
Our kiss quickly turned hot and heavy. Her legs found their way to my hips and she’s straddled on top of me.
“As much as I’d love you to grind into me against this table, I don’t think my mom will appreciate it as much.”
Lenny jumps off my lap and tries to pull back, but I hold onto her hand.
“Let’s go.” I pull her into the house and head straight for the stairs.
“Will Lenny be joining us for dinner?” Mom calls out from the kitchen which has a clear view of the front porch.
“Yes!” I answer for her. “We’re just taking her bag upstairs.”
“In the guest bedroom.” Mom calls out before we make it half way up.
I speed up making as much noise as I can.
“What?” I yell back over my stomping feet. “I can’t hear you, mom. We’ll be down in a minute!”
“You better not get that girl pregnant. Slishkom Mnogo Detey.” Granddad huffs from the bottom of the stairs before grumbling something in Russian.
I pull Lenny into my room and lock the door behind us. It takes one second for me to peel my shirt off and kick my shoes to the side.
“Wow. Nick Miller’s childhood bedroom.” Lenny looks around in awe, still in her coat with her bag on her back.
“You can look around later.” I peel her backpack off of her and drop it to the floor.
“How far back do these trophies go?” She examines the shelf holding all my trophies from as far back as I can remember.
“No idea.” I help her out of her very light fall coat. It’s soaked from the snow. What was she thinking wearing this thing?
“Is that an original Gretzky autograph?” She finds the several pucks I have lined on the next shelf down. “And Lundqvist?”
I pull her wet sweater up and over her head, but I don’t even think she notices.
“I can’t read some of these names.” She looks closer at the ones on the end.
I help her out of her soaking wet shoes and socks.
What was she thinking wearing these?
Was she thinking at all?
