Page 62 of A Play For The Heart
“Morning,” he mumbles into my hair, placing a kiss on the side of my head.
I turn in his arms to face him. Rays of sunshine land on him, giving him an ethereal glow. I like every version of Henry, but this one might be my favorite. Sleepy eyes, mussed hair, and still half asleep.
“Hi,” I say, leaning in for a kiss. He meets me halfway, placing a gentle, tender kiss on my lips.
“How are you feeling?” Henry mumbles as he tries to block out the sun with his forearm.
“Good. A little sore.”
I’ve heard people talk about the post-sex high in TV and movies, but I always thought it was something exaggerated by the media. It is incredibly accurate. I’m seeing rainbows and unicorns, I’m so happy and calm. But I’m also sore.
A good sore. A happy little reminder of what happened last night.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I should have known that he wasn’t small. He’s a massive football player. I’m not sure my vagina would have been prepared even if I had known.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, looking a bit sheepish.
“Don’t do that. It’s a sore that I’ll take any day.”
Grabbing my phone and looking at the time, I groan. If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of the day in bed with Henry repeating what we did last night. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities and a job, which means Henry needs to drive me home so I can get ready for work.
“I have to get home to get ready for work.”
“No,” Henry whines, attempting to drag me back towards him in bed. “Stay here. Working is for losers.”
I laugh at his ridiculousness, then throw the covers off and stand to get out of bed. For a moment, I forget that I’m naked. That is until Henry comments.
“Even more beautiful in the sunlight,” he murmurs, causing me to blush. I quickly pick up my clothes from yesterday, grimacing at the fact I have to put on the old clothes. I must have made a face because Henry hops out of bed and heads towards his dresser.
I take a moment to ogle him the way he just did to me. He probably has the nicest ass I’ve ever seen. It's tight and toned and I would like to thank the football gods for blessing him with it. He grabs some items out of the dresser and pulls a pair of gym shorts on.
Sad.
He turns around and walks towards me, a cocky grin spread across his face. “Enjoying the view?” he teases, handing me a shirt and pair of sweatpants.
I make a non-committal sound, instead hyper-focusing all my attention on putting the clothes on. That fit surprisingly well. This is not one of his baggy shirts. Suddenly, my heart begins to race, and I feel nauseous.
Why does he have women’s clothes in his dresser?
I make a valiant effort to not panic, but considering I just slept with him and now he’s handing me random women’s clothing, my breathing is becoming erratic.
I can’t help it.
I scurry out of the bedroom, not giving Henry a second glance. I scour the room for my purse, trying to get out of here as soon as possible. I can recognize that the adult response would be to ask him about the clothing, but I am terrified of that answer, and I am not going to voluntarily cause myself heartache.
Henry makes his way down the hallway, following me into the kitchen, visibly concerned. “Sawyer, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say immediately. I can’t have this conversation right now, especially not in some random person's clothing.
“Stop for a minute.” Henry grabs my shoulders, spinning me around and guiding me towards the barstool by the kitchen island. He sits me down, then grabs my hands and looks at me, eyes full of worry. “Is this about last night? Are you having regrets?”
The question sends a punch to my gut and the vulnerability and tinge of hurt in his eyes forces me to reassess my current state.
“Whose are—,” I try, but the words have trouble falling from my mouth. I attempt to ask the question again. “Where did you get these?” I gesture down at the joggers and shirt.
“The clothes?” he asks, clearly confused. What I don’t understand is why he’s confused. The question is simple. “I bought them.”
“Why?”
