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I’m never washing them again. Ever.
“What do you do when you have to pee during a game?”
I can’t help it. I laugh for real, glancing up at her. She’s lying on her side, hugging the pillow I slept on, and she’s too damn beautiful. “That’s what you wonder about after we just fucked again?”
“Well,” she grins, “I was wondering if you men ever fuck in the locker room, too, but I figured that was ataboo subject.”
I cock an eyebrow at her, not wanting to talk about this, not when I have feelings I’m trying to stuff down for her too.
“We pee all over the place,” I answer. “In our uniforms. On the sidelines. In a cup. We piss and play, what can I say?”
“Guys pee in their uniforms?” She lets me control the topic of conversation, and if she knew how that sweet gesture makes this even harder, she’d go back to the other topic I’ll never discuss. “And then you have to stick your hands between their legs?” Her tone is laced with laughter and disgust.
“Hey, we have to stay hydrated. It’s like we’re pissing water.”
“Have you done it?”
“No.” I grab the rest of my clothes from the dresser. It’s not much as I fold them into the suitcase. Then I yank on a clean pair of socks, not the treasured pair she’s gifted me, before I shove my feet into my Jordans while I explain, “I usually sit on the bench and piss in a cup and try and hide it with a towel or something.”
“Sorry to inform you,” she says, “but you can’t hide that Cyclops under any towel.”
“Sorry to inform you… ” I joke back, aiming for the adjacent bathroom where I grab my dopp kitt from the vanity and return, telling her as I drop it in my suitcase. “You can’t hide the cape hanging from your pussy either. Thank you for the best fucks of my life.”
Her grin is soft, and so are her eyes gazing at me. Her hair spills over my pillow, and I bet it’s still warm from our bodies, our bodies that belong together, and my throat fills with rocks.
“So, you’re saying I won?” she asks. “That my kinkypussy saved you?”
I glance down.
I can’t answer her.
Blair has no idea what she’s done to me.
Now I know it would be heaven with her, and that makes this hell. I zip my carry-on closed while my mouth closes, too. All I want to say and share with her, I can’t. “Yes,” is all I can mutter.
And now, I can’t speak. I can’t stop. I have to keep going, or I’ll climb back into bed with her and try to save her, too.
I don’t want Blair to give up on her dream, either. I know how defeat feels, and I want to take care of her, to keep her strong until she gets her big win, too. I believe in her. I know she can do it, and I’ll secretly follow her success online, scrolling to see how she’ll become a best-selling author one day.
Silently, she watches me grab my phone, charger, and wallet from the nightstand. Shoving them in the backpack I carry, too, I worry.
I don’t want to leave Blair feeling used because that’s not what this was; we know it. We feel it. It’s painful and heavy in the air around us.
I swallow, making myself tell her, “I, uh, had the concierge get something last night. I called him while you were in the bathroom. I was going to have him give it to you after I left, but since you’re watching me leave with the clothes you liked so much, I want to watch and see if you may like this, too.”
I try to make it sound crass and cute because it’s not. It’s romantic, and it’ll make this worse, but I’m jumping all the way off the cliff.
You knowwhat they say?
Go big or go home with your heart shattered into a million pieces.
My dumbass is doing both.
My steps turn and aim for the foyer by the suite door, where I find the gift that was safely deposited on the console table sometime in the night. You have to love the service at a five-star hotel, particularly The Mercier.
The gift is wrapped in white with blue and gold ribbons. I carry it back to the bed and hand it to her, her eyes shocked and her hair so cute because it’s all mussed from when we just fucked as she sits up to accept it.
“What’s this?” she asks. “Beau, you’re not supposed to get me gifts and make this romantic and hard and shit and?—”
