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God knows, my house is big enough for both of us. It's a six-bedroom, eight-bathroom mansion deep in Belle Meade. You have to drip jewels to get into this neighborhood. Which means security is tighter than Fort Knox. It's the sole reason I opted to move in when I joined the Predators two years ago.
My room is cloaked in darkness when I step inside. Moonlight filters in through the windows, illuminating the Alaskan king positioned just beneath. When you spend as much time in hotels as I do, nothing beats coming home to your own bed. I always sink into mine like I'm resting on a cloud. It's great.
Charlotte always makes it, even though I just mess it all up again as soon as I get in it. Except it's not neatly made now. The sheets are twisted up, the pillows askew. And there's a suspicious lump in the middle of it.
"What the fuck?" I mumble, turning the knob on the light-switch to the right. Soft white light spills into the room, confirming what I saw in the dark. There's a woman in my bed. And either God is thanking me for punching Jackson Hurst inthe face, or my concussion is more serious than the team doctor thought because it's not just any woman, either.
Charlotte Mabry is in my bed.
Thank you, Santa, Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, Vishnu, and Allah.
I stand rooted to the spot for several long moments, just staring at her. Charlotte is tiny. She swears she's five-four, but I think she's closer to five-one. Like the fertility statues that are far too sexy to be religious artwork, she's all feminine curves. This girl was made for babies and fucking and a man like me.
I'm not greedy, honest. But women weren't built to starve themselves or to be trophies. They were made to be loved. And I fuckinglovethat there's enough of Charlotte to sink into.
She's curled on her side with one hand underneath her cheek. In her sleep, her mouth is slightly parted, her long lashes resting against her high cheekbones. Her long dark hair fans across the pillows even though most of it is pulled back in a ponytail. She's fully dressed, with one tennis shoe dangling from her foot as if she kicked it off in her sleep.
Her t-shirt has ridden up, revealing an enticing strip of skin just above her navel. I squeeze my dick through my boxers, trying to get him to lay back down. It's a useless attempt. Charlotte is in my bed, my pillow tucked between her thick thighs. That's closer to her pretty pussy than I've ever gotten.
Is it ridiculous to be jealous of a damn pillow? Yes.
Does that stop the resentment coursing through me? No.
I want to be that pillow right now, more than I want my next breath.
Charlotte shifts in her sleep, mumbling something beneath her breath. I smile when her nose scrunches up as if she's annoyed. And then I catch a whiff of her and my smile slips. She smells like smoke. Not cigarette smoke---I would spank her pretty little ass for that—but smoke, smoke. It's the same thing I smelled downstairs.
"What the fuck?" I mumble again. I may have a concussion, but despite what Kelsey thinks, I'm not a complete idiot. The fact that Charlotte smells like smoke and is sleeping in my bed is a problem. Something's wrong.
I set my phone on my dresser and then cross to the bed.
"Charlotte," I murmur, kneeling on the floor beside the bed. My entiresoulprotests. It wants nothing more than to crawl into the bed with her, pull her up against me, and sleep like the dead with her in my arms. But I don't need Kelsey to tell me that crawling into the bed—even if it is my bed—with a sleeping woman to cuddle her without permission is beyond fucked up. I want this girl to fall in love with me, not flee into the night.
"Theo," she sighs.
For a second, I think she's awake, and then I realize she's still sleeping.
Ah, fuck. Is she dreaming about me? She is, isn't she?
I don't know if doctors are aware that lust is the cure for a concussion headache or not, but it just cured mine. The only thing pounding right now is my cock. It's fuckingthrobbingfor relief.
John's going to be pissed about this.
"Wake up, baby doll," I croon, running my hand down the side of Charlotte's face. And then my fingers trace her pouty bottom lip because I can't resist. Because I've been thinking about those lips for months, about the way they taste and how soft they'll be against mine. About what sound she'll make when I taste her for the first time, and how much of my dick will fit between them before she gags.
Her long lashes flutter.
"Wake up, little one," I croon, tucking errant strands of hair behind her ear. It's so damn soft. It feels like silk between my fingertips. So does the round plane of her cheek. God, she's soft and sweet and ripe everywhere. And I'm an asshole forwanting to flip her onto her back and pound into her until she's screaming my name. But I want it anyway. I wantheranyway.
Her lashes flutter again and then her eyes slowly drift open. Red was my favorite color until I met her. Now, it's blue. The exact shade of her eyes. She stares at me for a moment, her gaze adorably confused. In this unguarded moment, I see something else too.Joy.
As her gaze roves over me, trying to make sense of where she is and why I'm here, pure delight fills those baby blues. As if she's been dreaming about me and is discovering that it wasn't just a dream at all. As if she's thrilled to see me first thing upon waking.
John is going to be beyond pissed.
Sorry, old man,I think.If you didn't want me to claim her, you never should have let her stumble her way into my bed.
In a situation like this, the only rules that apply are playground rules.
