Page 27 of Watching You
He walks to the closet, pulls something from a hanger, and tosses it to me. A jersey. His number. His name. I catch it, fingers gliding over the smooth fabric, and without thinking, I pull it to my nose.
It smells like him.
Of course it does.
“I want you to wear this to the game tomorrow night,” he says, voice low.
I look up, startled. “Really?”
He nods once. “Yeah. I want people to know.”
My breath catches.
Because this isn’t just a gift.
It’s a signal.
A claim.
A beginning.
I’m still holding the jersey, fingers curled around the fabric like it might anchor me. The scent of him clings to it—cedar, clean sweat, something sharp and masculine that makes my stomach twist. I don’t know what I expected when he brought me here, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t him looking at me like I’m already his.
He steps closer, gaze steady, voice low. “I want to look up into the stands and see my number on you.”
My breath catches. He reaches out and tilts my chin up, gentle but firm, until I’m looking him straight in the eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I feel the heat of his touch, the weight of his attention, the way the air between us seems to hum.
He leans in, his breath mingling with mine, and the world narrows to this moment. “You’re mine, sunflower,” he says, voice rough, intimate. “And I want the whole fucking world to see it.”
My breathing picks up. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
“Yours?” I whisper, the word barely audible.
He doesn’t answer with words. He kisses my forehead, soft, reverent, like he’s sealing something. Like he’s claiming something.
Then he pulls back just enough to speak. “I want you, Blair. I’ve waited because I didn’t want to scare you away…” His voice drops, eyes lock on mine, breath brushing my lips. “But I think you feel it too. You’re not just something I want. You’re the only thing Ican’t unsee. You’re in my blood now. And I don’t share what’s mine.”
And I do feel it.
God help me, I do.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just moves slow and deliberate as he climbs onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. Then his hands find my waist, and he pulls me gently into his lap.
My legs fold over his, my front settling against his chest, and the jersey still clutched in my hands feels suddenly heavier. His arms wrap around me like they were always meant to, and the warmth of him, his body, his breath, his presence, presses into every inch of me.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly.
“I’m thinking,” I whisper.
“About what?”
I hesitate. “About how I ended up here. In your room. In your lap. Holding your number.”
He smirks, but it’s gentler this time. “You didn’t end up here, Blair. Youchoseit.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t usually choose things like this.”
“I know,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “That’s why it matters.”
