Page 18

Chapter 18

The Burden of Control

Gabe

I need to have my brain scrubbed out.

The cut, toned muscles covering the back of Wade’s naked torso tense and relax as he uses a spatula to flip something. Saliva pooling, my eyes draw lower, broad shoulders to narrow hips, two tempting divots above the waistband of a pair of heather gray sweatpants hugging the rounds of his hockey ass.

The black duffle in hand slips from my grip onto the foyer floor.

He turns at the sound, wearing a signature shit-eating smirk and showing off his square pecs and abs. The defined v of his hips is like an arrow pointing downward to the main attraction. His cock bulges against his thigh in a slight curve, the fabric clinging to its length so tautly I can nearly see veins.

“Up here, Freckles.”

My cheeks flame.

“ Oooh , are we having a sleepover?” His eyes flick to my fallen bag and back to me. “Those are my favorite.”

The throbbing between my legs transfers to my brain. I groan and rub my temples. “Should have left it in the car.”

“And what fun would that have been?” Wade pivots back and picks up a wooden rolling pin from the counter, sprinkling flour onto the marble. His triceps flex as he works.

“Too bad I’m not here to have fun; I’m here to eat—” A very specific scent of wheat cooked in heated oil follows the hiss at the stovetop. I peer over him. Whatever anger and annoyance I held from his obnoxious shenanigans at the game softens. “You’re making…paratha?”

I haven’t eaten homemade desi food in ages. Language, traditions, food. They’d been discarded to lessen the ache.

“You got it.”

“ You ? You know how to?” I stare in awe at its circular shape and the pile of similarly sized rounds on a cooling rack.

“What, like it’s hard? I told you I can cook.” He transfers one rolled paratha between his hands before smacking it onto the cast iron skillet. “There’s matar paneer in that pot, too.”

“It’s 11:30 p.m., there’s no way—” In a haughty motion, I lift the lid, and sure enough, bright green peas and cream-colored cubes of paneer swim in a sea of red-orange gravy. The rising aroma of garam masala tickles, and I hide a sneeze in my elbow.

“Boop.” He taps my nose with his pinky. “You’re cute.”

“ Ew . Quit being gross.”

“Gross?” He halts the rolling, front teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We can skip dinner and get filthy instead.”

A wretched lament growls from my stomach.

Wade makes an admonishing click with his mouth. “Never mind. Gotta get you fed before anything else.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re hungry. Sit down.” He uses the spatula to motion to the chairs.

The dominance in his tone almost turns me into a puddle, but I regain composure enough to loiter over to the bar stools on the other side of the island. “You’re not the boss of me,” I grumble.

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t mean anything. Now, sit. Or else I’ll have to use this ”—he throws a menacing smack mid-air with the kitchen utensil— “until your ass is so red you won’t be able to.”

“You wanna spank me?” My brows wrinkle together.

“Another invitation? Again, I accept.” He slides into the stool next to me, a plate in each hand.

I study the served portion with a squint. My hands search the counter but return empty. “Where’s the spoon?”

“Spoon?”

His innocuous, quizzical expression meets my unattractive snort. What a pair we make.

“S-p-o-o-n,” I enunciate every letter, “the thing you shove food into your piehole with.”

Wade ignores the insult. “I know what a spoon is, silly. But why do you need one?”

“To—”

“You’re supposed to eat with your hands.”

“Really?” I feign incredulity, then deadpan. “I don’t need a white boy mansplaining my own cul…ture.”

I trail into silence as he tears a piece of my paratha and uses it to gather the gravy and its contents. “Open.”

My lips obey and part.

“Wider.”

Fingers pushing past the seam, he strokes the bite of food onto my tongue. Jaw slack, his mouth reflects mine, tongue drawing forward in encouragement.

It’s delicious. Rich. Warmly spiced.

I hum through a content inhale, eyes falling shut by instinct. I haven’t had anyone feed me dinner like this since…Aai.

A wave of sadness surges in my belly with the faintest memory of her creating tiny mountains of puran poli. Her enthusiastic, exaggerated expression attempts motivation for the next bite. Her mouth forms words but there’s no noise, unable to recall what she sounded like.

I know he’s mostly innocent and doesn’t deserve it, but I can’t help lashing out.

Because I’m a dick.

“Why do you enjoy tormenting me? Acting like a whole-ass child while we’re working and then cooking me this…this…”

Amazing meal.

He stuffs another bite into my mouth mid-sentence.

“I think you mean, ‘Thank you for putting on a good show at the game and making one of my favorite meals from scratch, you handsome devil.’ And what about you?” Wade angrily eats his own bite and stores it in his cheek. “You think I fucking enjoy sporting a hard-on while playing? You think that shit’s comfortable?”

“ Mmf .”

“Or maybe you think I don’t care that you joke around with Donovan, Landy and Jaeg, or any other numbnut when you don’t for me? I know how you taste, how your pussy squeezes my cock…” Unfazed, he rattles them off like a grocery list, then swallows three or four bites in one go.

Meanwhile, I chew faster so as not to choke. Sweat beads on my upper lip. The man is so unserious that it’s hard to stay mad.

“…But I have no idea how to be the reason you genuinely smile.”

I gulp.

“Or laugh. Like really, heartily laugh from your gut. I wanna make you laugh so hard you pee your pants?—”

“Jesus, Boehner.” My fingers snap toward him to pass the paper napkins while finishing my food, needing to wipe a drip of gravy from the corner of my mouth. A slap lands on his naked shoulder, leaving behind a pink handprint.

“I’ll happily play the fool for your attention.”

“Oh, is that why you sucked on my dildo? To get my attention?”

“That…wasn’t planned. I did that because…” He glances up from his plate, dark lashes shadowing his darkened eyes, and replies in a husky murmur. “I like the way you taste.”

My heartbeat skips. Something deep in my core pulses.

Wade scratches his full lower lip with his thumb and lifts a shoulder, and the unbothered tone of his voice returns. “I mean, you left me unsupervised with your used dildo and wet panties. What did you expect?”

“Definitely not that .”

“I…” Pretty Boy pushes a cube of paneer around the curve of his plate before his words and hands halt, but his eyes flick up to me. Begging. “Did you like it?”

Logic doesn’t register when he begs like that. My admission comes out breathy. “Yes.”

“So, what does that mean?”

The sigh that follows is equally breathy. “That we have inexplicable kinks.”

Our gazes avert to our respective plates. I interrupt the brief silence.

“How…did you know?” There are very few people who know I like matar paneer. My eyes blink back at Wade, in silent questioning.

“I have my sources.”

I guess. “Indi?”

“Bingo. She was a huge help.”

“Indi helped you make this?”

She’s supposed to be my best friend. I don’t need her spilling all my secrets to Lover Boy over here. But I can’t tell her to stop without blowing this fake dating ruse to pieces.

“Nah. Her mom taught me a recipe over FaceTime before the game.”

My mind sighs with the thought of the closest thing I have to a mother. She’s the freaking best. A queen in her own right. Pharmacist by day, supermom by other day.

“You know Anju Aunty?”

“We’ve only met a few times: at the proposal, their engagement, and the wedding events. But she’s very sweet.”

“Tell that to Indi. She’d never admit how alike they are. Her dad’s amazing, too.”

Mentioning Rahul Uncle sombers the conversation.

“I wouldn’t know,” Wade replies. “Haven’t talked to him much.”

“ Ahhhh ,” I drag out the sound. “Gotcha. Being weird around dads is your MO. Why is that?”

“Probably better to unpack with a therapist.”

“Probably. Is it because your dad isn’t around?”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

I back off this time. We finish our meals wordlessly.

I ruined it.

The man is unrelenting. He asked people I love how to make me a homemade dinner, fed it to me with his hands, and I ruined it by bringing up his obvious issues around fatherly figures.

Gabe Finch, if you ever want your pussy eaten by him again, you make up for it right now. Yeah, that’s why I’m doing it. Not because I’m sorry for hurting his feelings or anything.

Wade loads the dishwasher as I soap up my hands.

“ So ,” I start. “Can I stay the night?”

His eyes brighten at the prospect, dispersing their anguish. “Same bed?”

“Sure. No sex.”

“Just sleep?” There’s not a trace of disappointment in his tone. “Do I get to cuddle you?”

“Yes.” It’s a mindless reply, but my insides go molten at the victorious smile he returns.

“Deal.”

Waking up without him spread over me like a weighted blanket feels strangely…hollow. The gentle fingers swirling through my hair, his hot breath skimming over my skin, the pleasured hums as I stroked his back, the soft snore on my chest when he fell asleep. It’s all too addicting to be healthy.

Oh, no.

What is this? Attachment? Feelings?

Psht. No . I don’t like him . I like…how he feels. How he makes me feel. It’s not the same thing.

Both palms cover my eyes but do nothing to ease the frustration. “Get a hold of yourself, Gabe. What are you doing?”

I thrash my legs against the mattress before swinging them over one side. My temples pulse harder at the two rings notifying me of new messages.

Mel

Adrienne’s sick as hell.

Mel

You cool flying to San Diego instead of Edmonton today?

Me

Do I have a choice?

Mel

No.

Mel

Sending the details now.

Me

Cool, I’ll see you at the airport.

I have a couple of hours to head home, shower in peace, and grab my suitcase, but instead, I find myself lackadaisically using all the fancy settings on Wade’s bidet, strolling over to the kitchen to make myself some Balinese coffee and then going down a rabbit hole on Wikipedia on why it’s the most expensive coffee on the planet.

The coffee cherries of kopi luwak, I learn, are pooped out by what looks like the Indonesian version of a possum, but it’s totally sanitary to ingest because of its cleaning and roasting process.

Interesting.

I’m clearly lollygagging.

I wish I was actually gagging on Wade Boehner’s magnificent cock.

Pathetic.

The door of one guest room I pass— the one with the plumbing issue and ruined floor, I think —is ajar. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I peek in, expecting another of his abandoned home renovation projects.

I gawp at the brand-new, shiny half-court, clear backboard and the unused net hanging from the orange rim. A rack holding basketballs lines the wall closest to me.

My bare feet test the sealed hardwood with a run and a jump, landing with a thud. Solid. Likely high-performance. Pricey for a home court, but he can afford it.

Sauntering over to grab a ball, I drop it to the floor. It returns to my hand after a satisfying thunk . The sound echoes as I walk it to the free throw line and get into position.

Four bounces. Bent elbows. I smile and blow out a sharp breath.

“Morning, Freckles.”

I fumble the release, and the ball bing-bongs off the rim. My smile vanishes, eyes narrowing at a smug, sweaty Wade, black t-shirt soaked to a darker shade. Those evil four-inch inseam shorts taunt me.

He follows my gaze and grins wider, yanking the shirt off with a single hand over his head, wiping between his pecs and abs before tossing it over the round of his shoulder.

“Better?”

“You made me miss.”

Wade catches the stray ball and dribbles. “Am I that distracting ?”

“No, just cocky.”

The ball switches between hands, similar to the paratha last night. They cover a decent portion of its surface with their sheer size.

My arms motion to the space. “Since when are you so into basketball?”

“Since I found out you are.”

A sardonic smile lifts one corner of my lips, the pit in my stomach growing at the possibility he isn’t lying. “Yeah, right.”

“Let’s go, Freckles. One-on-one.”

Pretty Boy sweeps his sweaty waves to one side with a brush of his fingers between dribbles. “Please? We’ve played against each other before.”

Don’t fall for it.

One arm crosses the other over my chest. “That was at a gym when our friends were secretly screwing each other.”

The game between Landon, Wade, Indi, and I feels like a lifetime ago because it was. So much has changed.

“Also, I’m barefoot. Take your socks off,” I order.

Will he ever stop smirking? How am I supposed to ignore how cute it is if he keeps doing it?

“ Aw , Freckles,” he intones while lifting his feet, then peels away his socks with a single hand. “If you wanted me to strip, you could have asked?—”

“Or you could answer my question.”

“Hey, I don’t have a lot of spare time during the season, and it’s fun to play with the guys now and again. Plus, I convinced my financial advisor that it wouldn’t affect the resale value because anyone who wants this place in the future would want a court.” The ball tucks between his elbow and hip. “So I combined two guest rooms.” He draws a line across the middle of the court with a straightened palm and one eye screwed shut. “All for you, Freckles.”

Bullshit.

I sashay to him, getting so close I can smell his minty toothpaste, then hit him with my best doe eyes and a sugary tone. “For me ?”

“Mmhm.” His bottom lip glistens with the swipe of his tongue. “Anything.” The seam of his mouth splits. “For.” Its gap widens as he leans forward, a silent yearning for a kiss. “You.”

The lightest touch tips the ball from his grasp. I laugh and take off, leaping up to make a shot. My silk pajama top flutters from me, exposing my chest. The ball swishes through the hoop as gravity pulls me—and my flimsy tank—back down.

Wade runs up to snatch the ball with both hands. “You’re playing dirty.” He admires my hardly-there breasts before resuming eye contact. “You flashed me.”

I fix my top and point to his shirtless torso. “Takes one to know one. I can take off my shirt to even the playing field if you’d like.”

His eyebrows lift in challenge. “You can, but then you’d be on your back in the paint while I suck on your tits. Wanna take the chance, Freckles?” He tosses the ball to me.

Yes.

No!

“No thanks.” An eye roll occurs by instinct during the short volley, and my forceful throwback knocks some air from his lungs. “If I win, will you stop calling me that?”

He dribbles twice, jukes me out, and charges, but ends in an easy layup. It goes in. Wade walks the ball back.

“If you win, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Tempting, but I have that already.”

“Touché.”

The ball returns to me, and our conversation continues amidst the consistent dribbling, the erratic squeak of our soles against the wood flooring, and staggering breaths.

I sneak in two points when his gaze goes down my shirt. He groans and whips his hands into a half-clap of disappointment.

“That’s what you get for lazy defense.”

His response is anything but apologetic. “Sorry, I get hard by thinking about how nice your tits are.”

I straighten from my bent position and hold the ball between my hip and wrist. “Why do you like it, Wade?”

“Like what?”

“How I speak to you. How I treat you.”

His hands form a T before grabbing the bunched shirt circling his neck. It’s used to wipe his chest and abs once more. “You mean how you’re bossy” —this time he tucks the tee into the back of his shorts— “snarky, mouthy...?”

My eyes draw another invisible arch as I deadpan. “Please. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”

Wade doesn’t break. “Because I know that’s not who you are. You didn’t talk to that piece of shit Vaughn like this, right?”

“No,” I say under my breath. Every mention of my past relationships feels like a failure. Insecurity toys with my nerves, and I react by bouncing the ball.

“How infuriating.” I mistake his nostrils flaring as resentment toward me, but he shakes his head and dispels the thought. “Jerk turned you into a doormat.”

My dribbling stills. “I was not a doormat.”

I was a doormat.

The man got whatever, however, whenever he wanted, and I thought giving, giving, giving to him was the best thing I could do. She’s a low-maintenance girlfriend; she’s so chill , he’d say. More like a spineless creature under the guise of being easygoing. Humiliating.

His elbow nudges my arm. “You still with me? That’s not you. But the Gabe you’re showing me isn’t you either.”

I hate that he’s right. That he knows I’m terrified of showing him any weakness, anything real. And that I haven’t been effective in hiding myself.

You cuddle a guy a few times after sex, and he thinks he knows you. Jeez.

Two steps away from him allows my jump shot. It goes in. I get the rebound, but it’s not as satisfying as expected.

“But I’d rather have a fake you than nothing.”

The earnest longing in his voice triggers a shiver. I can’t shake it.

Wade steals the ball while I’m caught off-guard. “Besides, I like seeing how far I can go. What sets you off.” Pretty Boy dribbles the basketball across the court. “Don’t you ever get tired, Gabe?”

“Of?” My arms shoot up in defense of any attempts he makes, but there’s no point. He’s bigger.

His shot from the top of the key goes in. I get the rebound.

“The burden of control, how heavy it is to pretend, to bear other people’s expectation of you?”

I do get tired. But I don’t trust easily enough anymore to let it go. And I’m not sure he’s talking about me.

“Sometimes…” One eye scrunches as he corrects himself and catches his breath, palming his side. “People think I’m an idiot, goof-off, whatever. It’s not often I get to just…be. To not have to sit there and analyze to death what I should be doing. One place I get to do that is on the ice. I can shut my mind off and chase instinct.”

“And another place?” A dangerous question whose answer I’m not entirely prepared for. I keep the ball against my chest. As if it’ll protect my heart.

“With you,” he replies, certain. “Giving you control has been” —he takes a pause and drops his shoulders, releasing a burden— “fucking freeing . It was so unexpected, a fantasy I never knew how to ask for. With you, I didn’t have to. It wasn’t weird or awkward. With you, it feels right.”

Tension clouds my judgment. I’m about to do something really stupid, aren’t I?

Wade’s shoulders soften as he folds in toward me. “So you can call me a fuckboy or manwhore or a sex idiot, and I’ll take it all. I know you could hurt me, but I kinda don’t care. You’re the first woman who’s asked for me to only be with her. I don’t think anyone else bothered.”

My chin juts up, finding it hard to believe. “You’re saying none of the women you’ve ever been with didn’t want to be your girlfriend?”

“Nope. Or if they did, they never said anything.” He huffs softly. “They want a free drink, dinner, access. A good time, a good fuck. And no judgment from me; that’s their choice.”

“I’m sure you were broken up about it.”

“Not saying I was, but…” The thick line of his lashes meets my brow. “It’s nice to have security, too. You don’t need me for any of those things.”

Those butterflies in my gut flutter in a frenzy, then start punching each other, furious.

What a tragedy. The man is a professional athlete in peak shape, handsome in an annoying way, stupidly rich, reads, calls my best friend’s mom to learn how to make my favorite meal, literally begs for my attention, and eats pussy like a champ. He’s basically a man written by a woman. The perfect boyfriend. How could anybody not want to be his?

His first finger latches onto my chin. “I meant it when I said use me however you like. You want control? You got it. You want me to take over? I will.” The next few words climb into my heart and ensnare it, trapping it in a spinning cage. “You can have all of me.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t give himself to anyone; if he does, it’s in tiny shards.

“Because, Gabe. You deserve something—someone that’s entirely yours. I’m yours.”

Mine? He’s already called me his, and now he’s saying he’s mine?

So much for fake dating. Just sex, we said. Now look at us. Fucking look at us!

“Pineapple,” I whisper.

“Pineapple?”

“It’s my safe word.”

That I decided on two milliseconds ago.

“For emotional boundaries, too.”

“Absolutely.” Worried eyes dart across my face, seeming to sense my impending emotional shutdown. “Anything else?”

“What’s yours?”

His lips pull into his mouth. “Meatloaf.”

“Why?”

“Give it a second.”

His hum hints at the tune of Meatloaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That.)”

I cover his mouth with my palm. He removes it by gripping my wrist.

“So, if I ask about your mom?—”

“Pineapple.”

Wade zips his mouth, mimes turning a lock, and throws away the key.

“And if I bring up your daddy issues?”

“Meatloaf.”

We share a snort. Mine’s closer to a chuckle.

His hand balls his pec, stumbling back a few steps and swooning with a falsetto lilt. “Oh, Freckles. Did I just make you laugh? You’re making my dreams come true.”

“You’re such a drama queen.” I swivel and bump him with my ass, keeping him at a distance from the ball. “It’s obnoxious.”

He hisses. “Quit making me hard with those insults.”

“You really need to talk to someone about that.”

“Is that a yes, Freckles? Wanna try new things with me?”

I back up with my butt once again, trying to maintain focus on the ball and not on the curve of Wade’s rock-hard third leg.

He groans in my ear and grips my hips with both hands. “Rub that ass on my cock again, and I’ll have to fuck it.” I don’t move. “Or is that what you want?”

I don’t say anything to deny or confirm, but my elbow drives into his side, giving me enough leeway to run to the wing.

It’s lucky, for sure, but my three-pointer taps the rim and goes in.

I whoop and gloat, running backward to the open door. “Gotta go catch a flight. Later, Pretty Boy!”

“You didn’t say pineapple!” he yells after me. “Freckles! I need to know! Am I or am I not gonna get to fuck your ass?”

I send him a text before boarding the plane.

Me

Be a good boy while I’m gone, and we’ll talk about it.