4. Melanie

4

Melanie

I stare at Brady's broad back and admire the way his muscles ripple as he throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands. He glances at his clothes on the floor and I fully expect him to pull them on and go back to his wing of the house. After all, that's his move. Yeah, Brady Fisher doesn't stick around after sex, and it shouldn't be any different with me. In fact, I don't want it to be.

I open my mouth about to say something, anything, but he speaks first. "Be right back." My heart jumps into my throat as he walks to the door and steps into the hall, still naked. What the heck is he doing? Across the hall, I hear water running in the sink and I grab the blankets to pull them up, wanting to get into the bathroom myself to wash up.

He comes back into the room, a warm, satisfied look on his face, as he gives me his famous bad boy grin. "Why are you covered up? I've already seen everything, Lanie, and I've been inside you." Heat rushes to my face. "Can you please take the blankets off?"

I swallow. "Since you're asking so nicely."

Unsure of what's going on here, I slowly slide the blankets off, feeling a little exposed and vulnerable beneath his intense gaze, but I also feel admired and maybe cherished, not that I would really know what it's like to feel those things. The truth is, I've always wanted to feel special, but I know that comes with a price and broken promises.

"Spread your legs," he commands in a soft voice, and that's when I see the washcloth in his hands. No freaking way. My heart pounds against my chest as I slowly inch my legs open. Brady sits on the bed, and the second he puts the warm cloth on my sex to wash me up, my throat tightens with emotions I really don't want to feel. What is going on here? This isn't the Brady I know, and while I liked that Brady—accepting him for who he is, because hey, we all have flaws—I like this man before me, too.

"Doing okay?" he asks, probably because I've gone as still as a stealth soldier. Dark, questioning eyes meet mine and I give a tight nod.

"You?"

"I'm doing great, Lanie." He moves on the bed, and bends to give me a soft, easy kiss. The kind of kiss familiar lovers give one another and it messes with my brain and body.

Before I can think better of it, I blurt out, "Kiss me like that again, and I'll never let you out of this bed."

He chuckles. "While I'm up for that, I'm not quite up for that." He gestures with a nod to his soft cock, and I laugh with him. "Besides, we have fish and chips in the kitchen and I want to feed you." His lids fall, veiling his eyes as he removes the cloth from between my legs, and there's a different kind of seriousness about him when he adds, "You worked all night, and then exerted yourself with me, and I want you to have your strength tomorrow for studying." At the mention of food, my stomach grumbles. He puts his hand on my belly. "See. Come on. Let's get dressed and I'll heat the food up."

He stands and tugs on his jeans and T-shirt, and I climb back into my frayed pajama shorts and T-shirt. I lift my arms and let them fall to my sides. "All ready."

"Yeah," he murmurs and gazes at me, his eyes holding the same amount of desire as they did when he found me in the lingerie. Maybe a little more, which is kind of strange.

He puts his hand on the small of my back and it sends warm shivers through my body as he guides me to the door. We go down the hall and into the kitchen and the delicious scent of French fries reaches my nostrils.

"Mmm, grease and carbs before bed."

"I start hard training and restrictive dieting soon, so I'm going to eat everything I want…" His gaze drops to my body. "…all I want, before that."

I gulp at the heat in his eyes and something in the way he says, ‘eat everything I want' makes me think he's talking about me. We can't fall into bed together ever again, though. That first time was a little intense—maybe because it's been so long for me, or maybe not—but nevertheless, I can't let myself feel anything for Brady. Love, lust and even like comes with conditions, and I will not ever put myself out there again. No one, and I mean no one in this world is going to dupe me…not again.

He turns the oven on and starts opening cupboards. "It's best to heat this in the oven. The microwave will make it soggy, and that's just nasty."

"Smart." I grab a sheet pan for him, and he goes to work on opening the boxes. I line the pan with parchment paper and he carefully places the fish and chips on it with big hands—hands that I crave to feel on my body again. Once he has the fish pieces and fries arranged the way he wants, he slides the pan into the oven. Funny, he's delicate about it, and it seems so contrary to his personality, and the way he plays hockey.

"Did you spend a lot of time in a kitchen?" I ask.

"Yeah."

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "Thirsty?" I ask, and open the fridge. Catching me by surprise, he steps up behind me, slides his arms around my body and pulls me against his chest. I gasp as he puts his mouth near my ear, his breath hot on the outer shell.

"I was, but you helped me quench it."

I gulp at his dirty words, yet I like them a lot. I don't tell him that. I don't need to. The quiver that raced through my body, and no doubt reverberated through his, told him everything he needs to know. Jeez, I think I might be an easy read for him.

"But I'll have a glass of pop."

I chuckle at that. "Here we call it soda."

"Well, now that you're officially a Newfoundlander, you can call it pop."

I turn to him and put my arms around his shoulders. I lift my gaze, because he's damn tall, and remind him. "I'm not officially a Newfoundlander. I didn't kiss a real cod."

He winks. "Close enough."

"Nope, that's cheating and lying, and if there is one thing I hate in this world, it's liars." I lean into him, my lips close to his, even though I just told myself we couldn't ever fall into bed together, but hey this is the kitchen so that's different. Talk about logical thinking at its worst.

He curls his hand through my hair and gently tugs until my lips part. "Look, do you want to kiss a real cod or do you want to take the break I'm giving you."

"Did you not hear the part about me hating liars?"

"Fair enough. We'll do the ceremony then."

"Who says I even want to be an honorary Newfoundlander, anyway?"

"Who wouldn't want to be?" He shoots out, feigning exasperation. "We're the best kind of people, duckie."

I nod. "If you say so. I'll have to take your word on it since you're the only Newfoundlander I know." He arches a brow, waiting for me to add more. I brush my lips over his and whisper, "And for the record, you were the best."

His grin is wide and playful as he picks me up, sets me on the counter, wraps his big hand around the back of my neck and presses his lips to mine for a mind-numbing kiss full of heat and promise. I widen my legs and he grips my hips, pulling me closer to the edge, and his more than ready cock presses hard against my sex.

Dammit, you can't do this again, girl.

Just when I'm about to beg him to pick me up and take me back to the bed, my brain registers a beeping sound. I slowly inch back and take in the lust in Brady's confused eyes, and note the way his chest is rising and falling as he takes deep, labored breaths. I blink, working to clear my own lust and that's when I clue in. The fridge door is beeping because we left it open.

"Fridge," I manage to get out as the lust in his eyes turns to laughter.

"Oh, is that what that was? I couldn't figure it out." He inches back and I instantly miss the warmth between my legs. He swallows. "I'm thirsty again and since you need to eat and I refuse to take you back to bed to quench it, until you do, I'll need to drink a pop ."

He emphasizes the word pop and I chuckle. "Grab me a soda, please."

He lifts a brow, looking less than impressed as he turns to grab two bottles from the fridge. I stare at his perfect backside, unapologetically admiring his body as he cracks the plastic cap on mine before handing it over. I take a long pull from the bottle, and he does the same.

He sets his bottle on the counter and checks the food. "Just about ready. Want to grab the plates and ketchup?" I do as he asks, and also grab some napkins and utensils.

I glance into the other room. "Want to eat in the living room and flick on something?"

"More than anything," he answers.

"I'll bring these things in." I leave the plates and carry our drinks and everything else into the living room. I set them down beside my books and remember that I was supposed to be studying tonight before my upcoming big exam. I guess I can cram tomorrow before work, and I don't have to make the commute back to my place because I'm staying here for the weekend. I find it so hard to study on the bus.

But staying here another night means Brady will be just a stone's throw away…again. Is that good or bad? I'm going to go with the latter. I pick up the remote and find some mindless sitcom that we can watch as we eat. I'm about to head back to the kitchen, when Brady appears with two plates full of delicious food.

"Dinner is served."

He sets the plates on the coffee table and drops down into the sofa, patting the seat beside him. "Right here, Lanie."

I grin, loving the nickname he gave me. "You got it, Coddy."

I sit, put my plate on my lap and squirt ketchup all over my food. "Do you want some fish and chips with your ketchup?" he asks, but then goes ahead and covers his with even more ketchup. "You know, in Newfoundland we mostly dip our fries into mayo."

I crinkle up my nose. "That's kind of disgusting."

"It's actually pretty good."

"Do you want me to get you some mayo?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, because then I'd want you to try it and I need to ease you into being a Newfoundlander. We're a lot to take at once."

I swallow at that. Yeah, I did take a lot of him at once and he had a lot to give. I toss a fry into my mouth and stare at the television, not really focused on the sitcom. My mind is too busy, my body keyed up, even though I should be lethargic after sex—and I know why I'm not. Okay, time to address the elephant in the room, and no, I'm not talking about the trunk he's working with between his legs.

"Brady?"

I lift my head and when I catch the way his eyes are narrowing in on me, my stomach tightens. Damn, he's been waiting for this conversation. I take a breath and stare at some distant point behind his shoulder as I work to form a coherent thought, and not cause tension between us. Heck, we see a lot of each other now that he's living here and I don't want to walk around avoiding him.

"What's on your mind, Lanie?"

My gaze drops to my plate and even though my appetite is dwindling, I dip a French fry into the ketchup, but I don't eat it. I just play with it. "I'm sorry you thought I hated you. I guess I can understand why. But I don't hate you. I think you're a nice guy."

"Good to know. I'd hate for you to sleep with a guy you didn't like." I angle my head, my gaze moving over the shadows on his face. When my eyes meet his, there's something very serious about him. "But I get the feeling there's something else you're trying to tell me."

I chuckle quietly and pretend to throw the fry at him. "Hey, I'm the psychologist. Stop reading into things and stay out of my head."

"Oh, so you're the only one allowed to read into things because you're doing your master's degree in psychology?" I grin at him and play coy, like I haven't been reading into what we've been doing all night. "Wait, have you been trying to get into my head?" he asks.

"No." I shrug. "You're a pretty easy read, Brady."

He nods as I eye him. Wait, what the hell just flashed in his eyes before he blinked it away? Was it hurt? Am I missing something here? God, if I am, I worry about my career choice. I'm trained to see beneath the layers.

Before I can examine that hurt deeper, Brady turns things back to me. "I'm not wrong though, am I?"

"Right, you're not wrong. What we did was fun. There's no denying that." I crinkle my nose up and even though I know he's a guy with a revolving door, and almost never sleeps with the same woman twice, for some reason I feel like I need to be gentle with him. "We just probably shouldn't do it again." I glance at my stack of books on the coffee table. "I have school and work, and I've been bussing back and forth from my apartment for a month now because my car broke down and I need to find another place to live. Plus…I mean, you have a lot of girls waiting their turn." Shoot, why did I add that? Was it to remind him, or me? Honestly, I don't know. I think those orgasms are messing with my brain. I am not looking for anything from this man.

He nods and shrugs it off like it's nothing. "Yeah, sure. I totally understand." A smile stretches his lips but doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey, you know me." He kicks his legs out, looking relaxed, but there's a tightness in his shoulders. Maybe it wouldn't be visible to most, but I see the tenseness. "I'm here for a bucking good time, and nothing more."

My chest tightens, a trickle of unease skating down my spine as I examine that quick flash of pain that disappears as quickly as it appeared. Have I been reading this man all wrong? Is there more to him?

He winks at me, his deep laugh curling around me as he says, "As far as I know, I'm the only Newfoundlander around here, so if you ever get ‘hungry' again, and want to kiss a cod…" He pokes his thumb into his chest. "I'm your guy." His deep laugh curls around me. "Something you need to see, just knock on my door. I keep boxes of condoms at my place."

Okay, I guess not, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

He bites into his fish and goes quiet. Once done, he glances at me. "Did you grow up wanting to be a psychologist?"

"Did you grow up wanting to be a hockey player?"

His shoulders tighten. "Right."

Shoot, that wasn't nice. I just don't like talking about my past, because it was pretty damn shitty. "I'm sorry, Brady."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"I didn't grow up wanting to be a psychologist. I wanted to be a painter, actually."

He smiles. "Really." I nod. "Why the change of heart?"

He goes completely serious, like he really wants to hear my story. As his hand lightly touches mine, the small sweep of his thumb over my wrist is tender, comforting, like a warm familiar sweater keeping me warm and perhaps it's that that has me blurting out, "I want to help others—especially children—and be there for them because there was no one there for me."