Page 54 of Lace 'em Up

“You’re still recovering,” I murmur, and before I can stop myself, I trace the yellowed edge of the bruise around her throat, the one she’s been covering with makeup, the one I can see now only because she’s washed that mask away.

Because it’s just her and me.

My heart rolls over in my chest. “You should go to sleep.”

One hand slips out from beneath her head, mussing her hair as she stretches her arm out beneath mine, winding our limbs together. She brushes her fingers beneath my eye, lightly stroking the bruise. “You’ve had a busy week yourself,” she whispers. “Saving me.” A beat. “Twice.” Another. “Plus, two practices. A game. Managing Zeus and dealing with an interloper—me—” She smiles. “In your house. Not to mention your mom showing up unexpectedly early.” Her thumb traces over my cheek. “That plate of yours is full.”

I shrug as well as I’m able to while lying on my side then pull my arm back. “I’d rather it full than empty.”

“Right,” she murmurs, drawing back herself. “I just…” She shakes her head, stoppers up the question.

“What?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re my fake fiancée,” I tell her. “I think that means everything in that gorgeous brain of yours matters.”

She yawns. “Sorry,” she murmurs, dashing a hand over her face. Then touches my hand. “It’s just…did I thank you for helping me?”

There goes that feeling in my belly again, the swoosh, the way phantom fingers seem to sweep up and squeeze my heart. “I don’t need a thanks, princess.”

“I know,” she says. Her top shoulder lifts toward her ear and drops. “Or I know that the King I’m getting to know doesn’t need one.” She exhales softly. “But that King deserves one.”

Another squeeze of those phantom fingers. “Princess, you don’t?—”

“I know.” Her palm presses to my chest, above my pounding heart. “But thank you, Kingston Bang. I—” She sighs, closes her eyes for a long moment. “I’m scared of starting over again, but it’s a little easier knowing that you have my back.”

Christ, she’s sweet.

And beautiful.

And my dick is very aware that we’re lying in bed next to each other, being nice to one another for a change. The problem is that there are far too few layers between us, and it only takes a bare moment for me to remember the sight of those long, slender legs beneath the hem of my tee as she’d walked out of the bathroom, the way the material had clung to the tips of her breasts.

No bra.

No bra as she’s lying next to me—soft and sweet and all too touchable.

Only…her eyes are drooping and her yawns—another one coming as she opens her mouth to seemingly ask me another question. “Sorry,” she says. “I just wanted to?—”

Another yawn.

And I’ve had enough.

I peel her hand from my chest, press a kiss to the palm, and gently set it on her belly. “I think your body is telling you that it’s past time to sleep.”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“You’re tired.”

I roll over and flick off the light, sending the room plunging into darkness.

“King,” she says, tone exasperated. “Really?”

I give in to the ache in my chest—those phantom fingers squeezing and squeezing and squeezing—and then I reach across the distance between us and tug her back against me.

A soft gasp, her body going stiff for a moment.

“Hurt you?” I manage to rasp, guilt and need tangling together, stealing up my throat.

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