Gage, page 13
Given the last kiss we shared on the banks of the Allegheny River under the illumination of the Pittsburgh skyline, I think about how we’re going to have utter privacy in a romantic situation. I’d like to tell myself that’s ridiculous thinking, but I’m the one who purchased candles for my little card table where we’ll be eating the roasted chicken, potatoes au gratin, and fresh asparagus. Gage is bringing wine.
Of course, romance is part of this setting, and he’s made it abundantly clear he’s attracted to me. And while I may not have been as forthright in my feelings for him, he’s a perceptive man. He knows I’m attracted to him.
More nervous excitement flutters in my belly as I move to the door. I take a deep breath and look down at the outfit I chose for tonight—a pair of skinny jeans with a long-sleeved lightweight sweater that actually has an open V-neck.
I’m putting myself out there.
No turtlenecks.
No scarves.
Granted, I’m wearing my long hair down and pulled forward, but I’m still exposing myself to Gage. I’m choosing to believe that my scars don’t bother him in any way, so I’m not going to hide them.
At least the ones on my jaw and neck.
I let my breath out and open the door, my eyes immediately drinking him in. It’s that flash I’ve experienced a few times already—when I first see him and have that blip of doubt as to how this can be real. He’s gorgeous, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, a bottle of wine in one hand and a white bag with handles in the other.
How can someone as beautiful, accomplished, and genuine as this man be interested in me?
But as I watch his own eyes travel over my body, not skipping or stuttering over my face or neck, coming back up warm with appreciation, I know I can’t doubt his feelings. It’s there, utterly stripped and naked in his expression that he likes what he sees. I flush with pleasure from that knowledge.
“Hi,” I say with a smile.
“Hi yourself.” He doesn’t move from the hallway and instead says, “I’m curious if you have anything for me?”
I tilt my head in puzzlement.
His eyes flash mischievously. “Oh, I was thinking maybe along the lines of a hello kiss?”
I can do that.
Why wouldn’t I want to do that? Open invitation to put my mouth on his? Sign me up.
As I step across the threshold, I’m acutely aware that his hands are full and he won’t be reciprocating any touch.
My hands go to his chest, and I rise on tiptoes to kiss him. Because he’s so tall, he graces me with a slight dip of his head to meet my lips, and the minute they touch, tingles erupt all over my body. A rumble sounds from Gage—a sign that he’s as affected by the brief kiss as I am.
I pull away and step back. “Come on in.”
He moves past me, straight to the kitchen as I close and lock the door.
Inhaling deeply, he says, “Something smells incredible.” He sets the wine and the bag on the counter, walking right to the oven to open it and peer in.
Makes himself right at home, and I love it.
“That looks delicious,” he says with a side-eyed glance as he closes the door. “Is it ready?”
Laughing, I move to his side and push him out of the way with bump of my hip, reaching for oven mitts. “It is, but the chicken needs to rest for a few minutes. Want to pour some wine?”
To my surprise, Gage wraps his arms around me from behind, crossing them over my belly. He pulls me back into him, wrapping me with a warm hug as he bends down to nuzzle my neck.
I stiffen slightly because he’s on the scarred side. But he merely presses his lips against my hair that buffers the scars and whispers, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”
And just as quickly as it happened, he releases me and turns for the wine bottle.
A flash of deeper intimacy is what he just gave me, and my pulse jackhammers in my veins. He kept it brief, making it comfortable for me.
To give me time to adjust.
A rush of affection hits that he would be so considerate. Even though we’ve only known each other a few weeks, I’m so touched that he’s taking the time to understand me.
My hand shoots out and grabs the sleeve of his shirt. His neck twists as he looks back at me over his shoulder, eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re like a dream.”
A slow smile makes his gorgeous face breathtaking. “You’re making me blush.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. Releasing my hold on his sleeve, I reach for the oven mitts again.
Except I don’t get my hands on them because he’s jerking me into his body, and his mouth is on mine, kissing me so passionately, my knees buckle. His arm around my back holds me up, pressed to his body. His other hand cups the side of my face.
When he pulls back, he looks down at me with a smile so tender, I don’t expect it after such a sizzling kiss. But my heart—protected by high, thick walls—melts when he says, “You’re like a dream too.”
I’m so dazzled, I don’t even think to protest when he lets me go and reaches for the mitts. “I’ll get the food out. You look in the bag… I brought you a present.”
A present?
I take the white bag, peek inside, and pull out a teddy bear. It’s wearing a Titans jersey, and when I flip it, I see it has Gage’s name and number on the back.
“Oh my gosh… where did you get this?” I ask, as I’ve not seen this in any of our merchandising.
He glances at me briefly as he puts the roasting pan on the stove top. “A man can’t reveal all his secrets. Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I say, giving it a squeeze. I don’t admit it to him, but I’ll sleep with it tonight.
The smile he gives me says he already knows that’s what I’m thinking.
♦
The food was good, but the dinner conversation was better. Gage insisted on cleaning the kitchen, and I was ordered to watch and keep him entertained.
I’m not sure there’s anything sexier than a man so comfortable at the sink, washing dishes with a towel thrown over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Those forearms… so strong and—
“… he’ll get a second opinion, of course,” Gage says, and I shake my head to focus on his words. What were we talking about? “But I think this is going to put him out for the rest of the season.”
Oh yeah… Jesper Keane, our goalie who was injured yesterday during the game. “How do you treat a groin injury?” I ask.
Gage glances over his shoulder and offers a wicked smile. “Unfortunately for him… lots of rest and no strenuous movements.”
I snicker and sip my wine.
Gage returns his attention to the roasting pan. “Losing Jesper and Coen is going to hurt.”
“It’s also bad press for the team. Brienne had a call this morning with the director and producers about being delicate in handling the Coen situation.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t pull the plug on it,” Gage says, rinsing the pan under the tap. “Although it’s not like it’s a secret. All the TV cameras there caught every bit of it.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” I say. I’ve gleaned a solid understanding of this woman and the way she thinks over the last few weeks. She’s as transparent as they come. “She didn’t want Coen bothered with this. Doesn’t want them chasing after him. But she also didn’t tell them to avoid the subject.”
“Yeah… it’s the last thing Coen needs.”
Gage snags the towel from his shoulder and dries the pan. He glances at me and I nod toward the cabinet where he tucks it away.
“Have you heard anything about what’s going to happen with Coen?” I ask.
Gage shakes his head as he pulls the plug on the water and the sink drains. “Not today, but I know he met with Callum. I’m assuming he hasn’t been kicked off the team as we haven’t heard anything, plus Coach Keller was in an extremely pissy mood at practice. I’m guessing it’s because Coen’s still a Titan.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “I still can’t believe Keller yelled at him in front of the whole team. It’s one thing to have those feelings, and I’m sure there have been coaches who’ve felt that way about players throughout the history of hockey, but that was so uncool to handle it like that.”
“Very uncool,” Gage agrees as he sprays down the sink and rinses out the dish sponge. “I’m just hoping Coen takes our suggestion to give this some time. Take a step back and think about it. Best thing might be for him to get suspended and be forced away from the team.”
That probably would be for the best. “Well, you handled the questions about Coen very well. You’ve got a natural gift when it comes to genuine talk.”
Today, the filmmakers interviewed Gage for the documentary. One of the producers asked the questions off camera, and it was directed in such a way to appear Gage wasn’t being interviewed but rather telling a story. They asked about a lot of the players on the team, including the incredible journey Baden has undertaken from paralysis to coach. When they asked Gage about Coen and the fight in Detroit, he deftly couched it in general terms about trauma, suffering, and healing.
There but for the grace of God go I is how he ended it, prompting no follow-up questions to delve into sordid details.
Gage turns away from the sink, drying his hands on the towel before tossing it on the counter. “All done.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I admonish with a teasing smile.
“But I wanted to. You cooked such a great meal, I wanted to do something for you.”
I take another sip of my wine and study him over the rim. “You know the age-old rule, he who cooks does not do the dishes, and he who eats, does? That relies on the concept of fairness. Equality. A partnership.”
Gage settles against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not following.”
I shrug. “You didn’t say you did the dishes because it was fair. You said you did the dishes because you wanted to do something nice. It’s a world of difference.”
Gage chuckles and nods. “I suppose it is. I like doing things for you.”
“I like doing things for you too,” I murmur almost shyly, ducking my head for another sip. The wine is relaxing me.
“I didn’t mention it earlier, but I really like your sweater. It’s pretty.”
The blush comes hot and fast, and I almost choke on my drink as my eyes fly to meet his. While his gaze stays level with mine, I’m sure at some point he took notice of the V that doesn’t dip quite low enough to show cleavage but it’s close.
“It means a lot that you’re sharing yourself with me,” he says softly.
And he’s not talking about cleavage or the style and fit of my clothing.
He’s talking about the fact I’m not covering my scars.
I smile, very much okay with him bringing up the subject. After all, I intentionally wore this sweater without a scarf to show I feel comfortable enough with him to do so.
“It’s hard,” I admit with a small smile. “But you’re the first person outside of Emory to not let me hide. To force me to examine things about myself and take risks.”
“I’m glad that you trust me enough to do so.” Gage uncrosses his arms and presses his palms on the edge of the counter beside his hips. “Listen, my sister Marianne and her husband are coming in week after next to visit and catch a game. I’d really like you to meet them.”
Wow. Okay, that’s big. And fast. And yet I’m so flattered, I want to cry.
To ensure the tears don’t come, I make a joke. “I’d love to. I’m glad you find me worthy.”
Gage pushes off from the counter and stands before me. I straighten but still have to tip my head back to meet his turbulent expression. “It’s got nothing to do with you being worthy.” He takes the wineglass from my hand and sets it on the counter without breaking eye contact. “It has everything to do with me being worthy.”
“Excuse me?” I say, my voice hoarse with emotion.
“You… sharing yourself with me, scars and all, means you find me worthy to be let in. That means something to me. It means enough that I want to share something back with you, and the most important thing is my family.”
Cupping my face with his hands, he peers down at me. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
A quavering breath escapes my lips, and my heart kicks into a staccato drumbeat of nerves, excitement, and… desire.
Yes, desire.
Gage touches his mouth gently to mine. I push off the counter and rise up to meet the kiss, my hands going to his chest where I can feel his own heart thrumming under my fingertips.
The gentle pressure of his mouth becomes more insistent, and I let him in. Gage tilts his head and kisses me harder.
No… he claims my mouth with his. Shows me just how hungry he is.
I get swept away in a maelstrom of sensations and emotions, and my eyes flutter closed. One of his hands curves around the nape of my neck to grip my hair. It’s a move of domination, and an ache forms between my legs.
Tugging on my hair, he forces my head back, allowing him to layer kisses over my jawline and neck.
On the left side—the side that’s normal. His lips move over my smooth and unblemished skin, eliciting goose bumps. My fingers dig into his chest muscles.
Gage lifts his mouth and my eyes open. I find him staring at me with such intensity, I want to bolt. With his right hand still lightly cupping my head, he slowly—almost reverently—brings up his left hand toward my face. I watch with wide eyes as he tucks the hair on my scarred side behind my ear.
My breath catches, but I don’t tense up. I force myself to have patience to see what he’ll do, inherently trusting this will be okay.
That he will be respectful of me.
Gage’s eyes move from mine to skim across my cheekbones and then down to my jaw and neck. His index finger traces the scarred flesh so gently, I can barely feel it.
And then he dips his head and kisses me right at the corner of my jaw.
That damaged skin doesn’t have the same nerve sensitivity as the rest, and yet I feel the touch of his lips as clearly as I did on the other side. Blood racing and heart slamming, the ache between my legs intensifies. Gage brushes his lips down my neck, and it’s crazy because I know I shouldn’t be feeling it in such exquisite detail, but I do. The softness of his mouth and the rush of his breath over the scars… a tiny moan slips from my mouth.
It’s that sound that does it.
Gage growls, hauls me up with one arm around my back and the other under my ass, and spins me toward the living room. My legs encircle his hips and my arms go around his neck to hold him tight as I kiss him hard.
For a minute, I think he might veer into my room, and I’m not opposed to that. Scared and nervous, but not opposed.
Instead, he goes to my couch, presses one knee down on the cushion, and lowers me to my back. My legs loosen from around his hips as his hands press down into the cushions above my shoulders. He hovers over me, looming large and intense. Gage’s face is flushed, and I don’t have to look down between our bodies to see the erection straining at his pants. I felt it as he was carrying me.
“We need to slow this down a little,” he says.
“But we haven’t done anything,” I point out, breathless.
“We will if you keep kissing me like you just did,” he grumbles and then gives me a mischievous grin. “I’m absolutely not having sex with you tonight, no matter how much you beg me to take your virtue.”
I laugh and reach up to tug playfully at his shirt. Smiling, I whisper, “I want you to know, it’s incredibly sexy that you’re so careful and respectful of me.”
Gage’s expression sobers. “I want you to know you’re not just a hookup. And if we do have sex, I’m not going to disappear on you. It will be meaningful because I’m already invested in you, and I think you’re invested in me too.”
“See,” I say in mock exasperation, “you say things like that, and all it makes me want to do is have sex with you.”
Those full lips curve upward. “How about we cuddle instead?”
It’s relief that I identify as my main emotion at his words. Granted, slight disappointment because his kisses have flared to life a part of me I thought long dead. But I’m also so scared at being rejected at some point—despite trusting Gage’s intentions—that I’m glad he’s slowing things down.
“I’d never pass up a good cuddle,” I reply with a smile.
“Cuddling it is.” Gage hauls me up, turns us on the couch so he’s sitting and then pulls me into his side. “I won’t stay long. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Big, indeed,” I say with excitement. Because it feels natural to me, I lean my head on his shoulder and wrap my arm around his stomach. His arm around my back gives me a squeeze.
Tomorrow the team flies to Arizona for a game against the Vengeance. The documentary crew will be attending and traveling on the team plane to shoot footage. Tying in Baden’s origin story about when he was the Vengeance backup goalie is paramount to telling his story. I’ve been told they’re going to interview one of the detectives who investigated the assault that left Baden paralyzed as well as the district attorney who prosecuted the men arrested.
This all means great things for me since Brienne has ordered me to be present during all the filming. I get to see my sister and niece, which is a treat since I didn’t think we’d be able to see each other until the season ends.
Moreover, I get to spend more time with Gage.
“What’s your schedule like while we’re in Arizona?” he asks.
“I’ll be with the film crew the entire time, but after the game, I’ll hang with Emory and Felicity.”
“You need that,” Gage observes. “I know you miss them.”
“That I do,” I say upon a sigh. “We’re probably going to have drinks at the hotel after the game, if you’d like to join us. I’d love for you to meet Felicity.”
I hold my breath, ready to cringe if he says he can’t, because while he might have a legitimate reason, my abused and battered ego expects the worst.
