Page 41 of Sexting the Coach
“It won’t be…too much trouble?”
Something in my chest relaxes. She’s coming with me tonight. Part of me knew I wasn’t going to be leaving without her—I’d sleep right outside their fucking door if that’s what it took—but it feels good to know she’s coming home with me. Where I can keep her safe.
“You’ll have your pick of guest rooms,” I say. “And I’m used to this kind of thing. My place is pretty press-proof.”
Once again, the girls look at one another, and Elsie stands quietly, disappearing into her room for a moment before returning with an overnight bag. Maybe it’s presumptuous to think she already had it packed. But I don’t see how she could have gotten it together so quickly otherwise.
We go downstairs, and Mabel opens the garage for us. Then I’m slipping back out into the night, this time with Elsie in the passenger seat. The paparazzi have not, apparently, caught on to the alleyway and garage, so we bump out onto the road without issue, passing by the gaggle of them.
The lights flash over her face, and I clear my throat, “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”
She gives a nervous laugh, “It’s not a big deal. I think I just need to sleep it off.”
I nod, and the ride back to my place takes longer than it did on the way out. Now that I have Elsie, I drive with more care.
We say nothing during the drive back to my place, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. If Elsie has any thoughts about my place—including the gate that slides open for us when we approach—she doesn’t voice them.
Ten minutes later, I’m clearing my throat and setting her duffel bag down in the guest room down the hall from me.
“I’m that door there,” I say, and then regret it, because although I meant it for if she needs something, I fear my cock is getting different ideas. I clear my throat again and step toward the doorway as she looks at me.
For the first time, Elsie’s face isn’t wide open. I can’t tell what’s going on in that brain of hers, and I’m not a fan of being on the outside.
‘Thank you,” she murmurs, then I’m closing the door and forcing myself to walk down the hall, one foot in front of the other. I close my bedroom door, stop and stare at the sliding balcony door directly across from me, take a deep breath.
My body practically sways with the urge to go back to her, to make sure she’s okay.
She’s not okay. I know that.
And I also know that making sure she’s okay isn’t my only urge. Because the moment I ran a soothing hand over her shoulder, or brushed the hair out of her face, it would be just like in that elevator again. I can’t trust myself around her.
Which is why it’s a good idea for me to stay here, in this room, until the morning. When the sun is up, I’ll be much more capable of keeping control of myself.
I exercise my willpower, going into the bathroom, brushing my teeth, grooming my beard, changing into my pajamas. That’s one benefit of what happened tonight—it kept me from falling asleep on the couch, uncomfortable and not ready for bed.
When I’m done with my nighttime routine, I walk into my bedroom, but don’t climb into the bed. It’s a four-poster thing,some antique Leda picked out when we were together. Some of my friends suggested that I get rid of all the furniture we got together, but I’ve never been that sentimental, and besides, I like the thing.
Plus, she was hardly home enough for it to feel likeourbed.
Instead of getting into bed, I start to pace, running my hands through my hair. Maybe Ishouldgo check on Elsie. Maybe she’s still feeling shaken up about the whole thing.
No—that’s just me finding a way to go to her room.
I go back and forth, pacing, arguing with myself, until my hand is reaching for the doorknob, and I throw the door to my room open, knowing I’m about to make a huge mistake.
And there’s Elsie, standing in the threshold, her mouth in a perfect littleo, her hand raised to knock on my door.
Chapter 17
Elsie
Distantly, in some part of my mind, I know that knocking on Weston’s door is a bad idea. But that doesn’t stop me from walking down the hallway—wearing nothing but a little black nightgown—and standing in front of his room, heart pounding.
For a full minute, I try to convince myself to walk away. That I’m only here because he wants to keep me safe, and for no other reason. That it’s not a good idea for me to get tangled up with him, because I’ll definitely catch feelings.
When I raise my hand to knock, I freeze, fist held up in front of the door, heart hammering. How embarrassing would it be if he turned me away?
But he doesn’t. Instead, he throws the door open, body rocking forward like he’s about to walk out into the hallway himself. Our eyes lock, then my gaze travels over him, taking in his mussed hair, his rumpled gray sweatpants, the way his body leans toward me.
