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Henry had the courtesy to let me know that after six months of living next to Nate and Stassie, he can confirm with absolute certainty that the room is not soundproof.
“Listen, this isn’t working. You’re too fucking hot and the presidents aren’t helping, I’ve moved on to Stanley Cup winners, but with you just here”—he gestures to my thighs spread across him—“looking like that,” he says, gesturing up my body, “it’s going to take forever.”
It’s not that I’ve never been told I’m hot before, I have, but this guy seems tortured by it. Like he’ll never recover from it. Like I’m the tipping point of his sanity, and that is a feeling I could get addicted to.
For all the romance books I’ve read and all the happy endings I’ve enjoyed, I can’t imagine my own. I’d like to hope I’ll have one, but hope can be dangerous.
“You’re taking it so well, sweetheart.” I work a little harder, clearly motivated by words and moans. “That’s it, good girl.”
“I don’t think I’d like being crushed by a hockey player, funnily enough.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I say quietly without thinking.
“If it’s a bull shark, we’re both screwed because I’m dragging you with me. You’re bigger, you’ll taste better.”
“Trust me, you taste incredible.”
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m watching you go in so you don’t have to watch me leave.”
“Well, green is my favorite color.”
“What type of green? Ogre green?”
“Whatever shade your eyes are.”
“Oh, my sweet summer child.” He laughs. “You’re a straight white man. That’s your red flag.”
