Page 84 of Branded
A pause. “What’s that?”
I explained. “And I’m worried about Raph. He was…” Off wasn’t the right word because he’d played well in the game, but there was something off about his mental state. Like something was wrong, but he wasn’t sharing. “He’s quiet,” I finished lamely, which so wasn’t a good explanation.
But the thing was, Raph wasn’t a quiet guy.
He talked almost as much as me, and he was always playing pranks (hello, Herman), or at the very least, dishing out plenty of shit in the locker room.
“Because of Monica.”
Not a question.
I sighed again. “Yeah, I think so, little bird.”
“Maybe the pregnancy is really tough on her,” she said. “I know that Hazel wasn’t exactly loving the whole morning sickness beginning part.”
“Yeah.”
But it wasn’t just that.
“But it’s not only that,” she said, agreeing with my inner worry.
“No.” I blew out a breath and rolled to my stomach. “But I don’t want to talk about that,” I said, forcing the worry to the side, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it unless Raph let me in a little or he had a bit more clarity with what was going on.
“It’s important to talk about the heavy stuff.”
God, I loved this woman. “Yeah, it is,” I agreed. “And we can do that more later. Now”—I hit the button for FaceTime—“I want to plan how I’m going to punish you.”
The video connected, revealing her smiling face. “What have I done now, baby?”
“Oh, little bird, you’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
Eight days later—and only not seven because I’d gotten home on the team’s flight around three in the morning and didn’t want to wake Kailey up—I was climbing the stairs to her apartment and finally going to see her in person.
FaceTime naughty time wasn’t nearly as fun as real-life naked time.
We were very overdue for some naked time.
I needed to hold her, to taste her, to be inside her and?—
Her door flew open.
And fuck, she was beautiful. Her smile, the way her face lit up, the blue dress that clung to her curves, her bare feet with pink-painted toes.
I clocked that all in a second.
Then she was in my arms and against my chest. Cinnamon in my nose, curves beneath my palms. My woman.
Home, even though I wasn’t walking through my front door, but hers.
Home because she was pressed to me, or rather, because she was hopping up and I was lifting her as we moved inside, slanting our mouths together.
Her fingers clenched in my shirt, tugging me closer, tongue diving deep.
Her legs were tight around me.
Her moans were in my mouth.
It would be so easy to inch up the hem of her dress and—fuck it. It was easy, so I tugged up the bottom, slid my hands down and around and?—
