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Every time I come home, I think about the fact that she's been in my personal space. I smell her everywhere in my house,seeher everywhere. The things I've thought about doing to her over the last five months would get me slapped if she knew. I've jacked my cock raw thinking about her. And still, I dutifully dirty up every room in my house, just to keep her in it as long as possible.
But if I actually see her in my personal space, I'm going to lose my mind. She'll be naked and sitting on my cock, lickety-split. So I haunt the stadium while she's here, just to avoid doing something I can't take back. My sweet little fairy has no clue, of course.
She thinks I'm just a busy man with no concept of personal cleanliness. The truth is far more pathetic. I'm a desperate man, making desperate choices just to keep her close. Do you know how hard it is to intentionally dirty up a mansion four days a week without making it look intentional? Hard. Really hard.
I should be taking care of her, not the other way around. But no. I'm leaving my shit strewn from one end of the house to the other, just to keep her coming back to the one place I won't allow myself to be when she's here.
I'm at the end of my rope and it's quickly fraying beneath my hands.
"Four stadium tours won't kill you, Theo," Kelsey says. "But if you get in another fight, I might. So…see you first thing Monday morning for the first tour!"
"I'm not doing any fuc–"
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away from my ear again to look at it.Call endedflashes across the display, confirming what I already knew. Kelsey just hung up on me. I type out a quick text, informing her that she's rude.
Me: Hanging up on me was rude. Also, I'm not doing any fucking tours.
Kels: You'll get over it. And yes, you are. Now, leave me alone and go take care of your brain. We can't afford for it to get any smaller.
I decide not to dignify that with a response and toss my phone toward the coffee table, only to immediately curse and pick it back up again. My brain isn't in any major danger from a single concussion, but I'm supposed to wake myself up every few hours since I adamantly refused to stay at the hospital overnight. Call me crazy, but I don't think a hospital full of fans is particularly restful. They tried sneaking into the ER six different times while I was there.
I love our fans, but they're wild. Especially the women. And puck bunnies aren't my idea of a good time on the best day, let alone a day like this. They're drama best avoided. I learned that early in my career when one tried to claim I got her pregnant. I never even touched her. She was at the same bar as the team and came over to say hi. She was drunk, trying to get me to go back to her room with her. I walked her to her door to make sure she got there safely, and then went back to my room. Alone.
Two months later, she was on TMZ, claiming I got her pregnant. Several of my teammates went on record to say that I never touched her. I had to sue to have a paternity test performed. She disappeared quietly after the results confirmed she was lying. And I no longer try to be a gentleman when it comes to puck bunnies. I keep my distance and let someone else handle them. So do a lot of my teammates.
People assume we screw around because we're sports stars, but it's a false assumption. Most of us prefer not to risk it. A quick fuck isn't worth the potential fall-out. Especially with Kelsey to terrorize us.
My dick hasn't seen action in so long I'm pretty sure he's forgotten what pussy looks like. Celibacy never bothered me until Charlotte looked up at me through her long lashes and I got lost in those baby blues. If fairies are real, Charlotte is part of their royal court. She's so goddamn pretty.
Her golden skin practically glows. When she's embarrassed, her cheeks turn the sweetest pink. And I'm an asshole for being as fascinated with her full lips as I am. But every time she speaks, I wonder what it'd feel like to have those lips wrapped around my cock while her dark hair slides through my fingers.
I'm dying to sink my hands into her round hips and feel every one of her curves against my body. She's soft in a way that's far too appealing to me. My body is a machine built for war…or hockey. I'm a big guy, measuring in right at six-four. My size is an advantage on the ice. I can take a hit and keep going. Most of the time, they don't even slow me down. But the thought of having Charlotte naked in my bed even once is enough to bring me to my knees.
I'm not just in love with her. I'm fucking obsessed with her. To the point that I've sat outside her apartment more than once, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I stalk her social media. Every damn thought in my head is consumed by her when I'm not on the ice. I know it's crazy. But I also don't give a shit. Love makes everyone a little crazy.
If they knew Charlotte, they'd feel the same way I do.
Which is the other reason I hired her to clean my house. The more time she spends here, the less time she has to spend anywhere else. And the less time she spends outside of my house, the less likely it is that some other bastard will try toput his grubby hands all over her pristine body. I'm a jealous, possessive, irrational asshole when it comes to her.
If she wasn't my future stepfather's niece, I'd have taken a chance by now and tried to claim her. But John made it clear she was off-limits when he introduced us. He's an asshole for that, but I can't say I blame him. She's nineteen, barely out of high school, and shy as hell. Women who could never hope to compare to her would make her life hell just out of spite if they knew how I feel about her. They're vicious, jealous harpies who refuse to get off my dick—figuratively speaking, of course—and stalk someone else.
Charlotte isn't like that. There isn't a mean bone in her body. But the fact that I make ridiculous amounts of money playing a professional sport freaks her out. She's made it pretty clear that she wants nothing to do with me or my crazy life beyond cleaning my house four days a week.
The more she ignores me, the more I want her. And the more I want her, the less I like John's rule about keeping my hands to my damn self.
My dad ran off with another woman when I was still a kid. My mom was alone for a long time before she met John a year ago. He treats her like a queen. The last thing I want to do is cause any conflict between the two of them. But damn. I'm getting real fed up of not knowing exactly what Charlotte is thinking about every second of the day.
Every time I see Wes and Laney or Gray and his girl, Camila, jealousy eats me alive. I want what they have, and I want it with Charlotte Anne Mabry. Fuck John and his rule. Fuck puck bunnies, news reporters, and everyone else too, for that matter.
For some reason, there's a faint hint of smoke in the air, as if something were burning hours ago. Underneath that acrid scent, I smell Charlotte. Her scent is stronger than usual, and it's messing with my head. She smells like lavender and some scentI can't place. It's a spicier note than the lavender, making her an alluring combination of sweet and spicy that makes my dick hurt.
"Suck it up," I mutter, looking down at my dick. Normally, I'd humor him and jerk off to one of the pictures of her saved on my phone, but not tonight. I'm too fucking tired.
I double check to make sure the door is locked, set the alarm, and then head toward the stairs to get some sleep. I strip along the way. One shoe lands at the bottom of the stairs, the other on the first landing. My shirt ends up draped over the balcony. I leave my jeans on the floor in the hallway. My socks too.
I feel guilty about leaving my shit all over the place for Charlotte to pick up. But not guilty enough to stop doing it. She belongs here, not out in the world where some other asshole might get his hands on her.
