Page 25 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Talking In Your Sleep

Chance

I wake up to the whirring of the ceiling fan above me.

It’s still early—the morning sun just barely making its presence known through the top slot of my blinds.

Stretching, I roll out of bed and throw on a pair of sweatpants.

No need for a shirt. It’s my apartment, after all, and Ant should probably get used to me shirtless.

Smirking to myself, I run a hand through my hair and head out into the living room.

Ant’s still asleep on the couch, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders, his face relaxed in a way I’ve never seen on him.

He looks… peaceful. Angelic. His dark lashes rest against his cheeks, and the steady rise and fall of his chest is the only movement in the room.

Little G is curled up on the floor beside him, the traitor.

I grab his leash, fasten it to him, and tiptoe to the door, careful not to wake Ant. I slip into my slides and get Little G out the door.

The morning air greets us with a crisp chill, a refreshing change now that November has finally brought some relief from the endless heat. I almost need a shirt. Almost.

As we make our way back, Little G’s tail starts wagging faster, probably excited to see Ant. Can’t really blame him.

Back inside, I set my traitorous buddy free from his leash and head to the kitchen to start the coffee maker. The rich aroma fills the apartment as I lean against the counter, waiting for it to brew.

I hear a rustle from the couch and look over as Ant sits up slowly, rubbing at his face and blinking groggily.

His hair is mussed, making him look impossibly hotter, and his sweatshirt has shifted slightly, offering me a glimpse of skin just above his waistband.

He spots me and freezes, his gaze dropping to my bare chest before darting back up to my face.

“G’morning,” he mumbles as he walks to the kitchen, his voice a little hoarse from sleep.

“Morning,” I reply, grabbing a mug and filling it with coffee. I hand it to him and watch as he clutches it like a lifeline.

“Thanks,” he hums, taking a big sip.

Fuck, why is that so sexy?

“How’d you sleep?” I ask, leaning casually against the counter, subtly engaging my abs, just enough to make them stand out.

Ant takes another sip, his cheeks tinged pink. “Really well. That couch is way more comfortable than it looks.”

“Good to hear,” I say, grinning. “But I’ll never forgive Little G for ditching me to sleep out here with you. Traitor McTraitorface, Benedict Arfnold, Traitor Tot.”

Ant lets out a hearty laugh, bending down and scratching behind Guinness’s ears as the dog wags his tail furiously.

Same, dog. Same.

Ant straightens and points at me. “You like to give nicknames. Don’t confuse the poor guy. Guiness and Little G are enough.”

I shoot a smile his way. “Just like Ant and Beautiful are enough for you?”

He shifts uncomfortably, then tries to bury his smile inside his coffee mug.

“For the record, there will never be enough nicknames for you,” I risk saying, and move to grab almond milk from the fridge and add a dash to my coffee.

Ant’s still blushing as I offer him some. He nods and holds out his mug.

After taking another long pull from his coffee, he hesitates, his fingers tapping against the side of his mug. “So… uh, I couldn’t help but notice your tattoo. The dove on your lower back. It’s... interesting. Does it mean anything specific?”

I swallow nervously. “Oh, that? Just something from a past life.”

Ant’s brow furrows, his curiosity clearly piqued. “Well, it’s beautiful.”

I cock my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. “No, you are.”

He averts his eyes, and the pink in his cheeks deepens to a full blush. “I—uh—thanks. I mean—”

He stumbles over his words, looking everywhere but at me. Fuck, even his fumbling is sexy, and those lips wrapped around the rim of his coffee mug… it’s killing me. I need a taste.

Finally, he sets his mug down and says, “Thanks for the coffee. I’m going to get ready. Then I’m gonna head to the grocery. Text me your list. I’m buying. Least I can do.”

Before I can protest, he’s scurried off to the hall bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head as I take another sip of coffee. He’s flustered, no doubt about it. But it feels a little less guarded than when I first started flirting with him.

Progress.

Leaning back against the counter, I glance at the closed bathroom door, my mind whirring. I don’t think I’m crazy. Ant is attracted to me. He just doesn’t want to admit it or face it yet. But the way his eyes linger, the way he blushes when I flirt, it’s all there.

Smiling to myself, I take another sip of coffee. This is going to be fun.

It’s been a little over a week since Ant moved in. He’s been gone some of that time for an away game, but I’ve still gotten used to having him here. The apartment feels warmer, more alive. Little G likes having him here too, and honestly, who wouldn’t?

For most of the day, the apartment has smelled incredible. Ant started cooking this morning, leaving a pot of something simmering on the stove before heading to class. I don’t know what it is, but the rich, savory aroma has been driving me crazy all day.

When the door finally opens in the late afternoon, Ant steps inside carrying a couple of overflowing brown paper grocery bags. He looks fucking hot in a fitted T-shirt and jeans, his hair adorable mussed, as always. I want to grip two fistfuls while he drills into me—.

“Hey,” I say, shaking those thoughts off. I get up from the couch where I’ve been pretending to watch TV. “Need help with that?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he replies, handing me a bag.

I follow him into the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter and glancing at the pot on the stove. “So, what’s going on here? Whatever’s in that pot smells amazing.”

Ant gives me a small smile as he starts unpacking. “It’s sauce for lasagna. I figured I’d make dinner since we both have the night off. I went out and picked up some fresh veggies for salad and a loaf of Italian bread. Oh, and I got a bottle of red one of the vendors from Vino & Vinyl recommended.”

“Lasagna?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re making a whole Italian feast, huh?”

He shrugs, looking beautifully shy. “It’s, uh, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is when it smells that good,” I reply, grinning. “My mouth’s been watering all day, Pacini.”

“Oh, um, that’s my all-day sauce. It’s the most important part of a good lasagna.”

I can’t help myself.

I lean down, lower my voice, and activate smolder mode. “I can’t wait to taste your sauce, Beautiful,” adding a wink for good measure.

He sputters, eyes widening as he fumbles the head of lettuce in his hands, sending it tumbling to the floor.

Suppressing a laugh, I drop to my knees in front of him, grab the lettuce, and look up, extending it to him with an innocent expression and bat my lashes. “You dropped something,” I say, my tone laced with playfulness.

He snatches the lettuce from my hand and quickly turns away. I push myself to my feet, trying not to smirk too much as I watch him busy himself with the salad like his life depends on it. Fucking hell, he’s sweet.

As I put away the remaining groceries and he finishes the salad, I notice how smoothly we move around each other in the small kitchen. It’s like we’re in sync, reading each other’s next moves without a word.

“How long until dinner?” I ask, leaning back against the fridge, watching him stir the sauce.

“I’m going to open this wine and let it breathe,” he says, grabbing the bottle, “then start on the garlic bread. The lasagna won’t take long once I cook the meat and noodles, prep the ricotta, put it all together, and bake it. Maybe 45 minutes in the oven.”

“Perfect,” I say, grabbing my keys. “Be right back. Don’t start without me.”

He glances at me curiously but doesn’t ask where I’m going.

I head to the store and pick up a set of wine glasses. All I have in the cupboards are plastic tumblers, and who drinks good wine out of a tumbler? After that, I stop by a boutique bakery I love nearby and grab a cheesecake.

How do you land a shy, skittish Italian? Turn the dinner he’s making into a low-key date, and hope for the best.

When I get back, the apartment smells even better. I head into the kitchen expecting to find Ant in there. When he’s not, I call out for him. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I look up, expecting to see him in his usual hoodie and sweatpants.

Instead, he’s walking down the hall in nothing but a towel around his waist while he dries his face with another.

Holy fucking fuck.

I freeze, a bag nearly slipping from my hand as my eyes take it all in.

Ant doesn’t notice me at first. He’s rubbing the second towel over his wet hair, his shoulders and chest gleaming from the shower.

Jesus.

I’ve known Ant was ripped from the moment I laid eyes on him, but seeing him like this—bare skin, defined muscles, a body that looks like it was carved out of marble—my brain goes offline.

And then my eyes drift lower.

The towel is slung low on his hips, and it’s impossible not to notice the massive bulge swinging under the thin fabric as he moves.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

If that’s soft, what does that monster look like hard?

Ant finally notices me, his gaze following mine, and his face flushes an even deeper shade of red than the heat from the shower had tinged his bronzed skin.

I nervously hold up the bags, then practically shout, “I brought a cake.”

Ant smirks at me, clearly enjoying the role-reversal.

‘I brought a cake?’… Seriously, Sullivan?

I take a breath, recovering. “Uh, you got that nice bottle of wine, and I didn’t have any proper glasses. A good wine deserves wine glasses.” Then, holding up the cheesecake, I clarify, “And I picked up a New York cheesecake.”

Ant looks at me, surprised, before breaking into a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”