Hoops Holiday (Hoops 2.50)

If you can’t come through when it’s life or death, when it counts, then what good are you?

I finally drift off to sleep in the rare comfort of someone else’s arms and realize that is the question that’s been haunting me. I may find no peace until I have an answer.

12

Decker

I’m making French toast when she enters the kitchen the next morning.

She’s not exactly shy, but she has trouble meeting my eyes. I hope it’s just morning-after awkwardness, not regret. Last night was the best sex of my life. One of the best nights of my life period, even though there were tears and pain and it was hard.

It was her.

It was my chance to unwind the labyrinth that has been Avery all these years. To understand her and get a glimpse of what’s beneath all that control. It’s beautiful. So beautiful that now I’m addicted to her honesty and her vulnerability and her boldness and her brand of brokenness. If last night was my only hit, she’s a high I might chase the rest of my life.

“Morning.” I glance up from the toast sizzling in the pan.

“Morning.” She toys with the belt of my silk robe she’s wearing. The hem trails the floor behind her because there’s more material than her much shorter body knows what to do with. It still looks really good on her, gaping in front, hinting at two high, perfectly round breasts and copper-toned skin stretched over a taut plane of feminine muscle in her stomach. Her hair, tousled around her shoulders, rests dark against the maroon-colored silk. She runs a self-conscious hand over the tangled strands, combing her fingers through and pushing them behind her ear.

“You look beautiful,” I reassure her.

Her fingers freeze in the process of setting her hair to whatever rights she’s attempting. She climbs up onto the high stool, leaning her elbows on the counter.

“Breakfast?” she asks unnecessarily.

I turn the toast with a laugh. “Looks that way.”

She grimaces over my answer before surrendering a grateful smile when I pass her a cup of coffee.

“Sorry it’s not your cold brew.”

“It’s fine.” She takes a long sip. “Oh, God. Thank you.”

She clears her throat, shifting a little uneasily on the stool.

“And thanks for the ibuprofen you left.” She rims the lip of the mug with her finger, not looking up. “That was very thoughtful.”

“You had a good bit to drink last night.” I turn off the toast and start scrambling eggs in a second pan. “Thought you might be a little hungover.”

A wicked smile starts in her eyes and then creeps its way to her lips.

“It’s not my head that’s sore.”

I pause in the preparations, processing what she is saying. My laugh bounces off the kitchen walls and I walk over to her, notching my hips between her knees. My hands stroke her back through the silk. She’s soft and warm and smells fresh.

“You showered?” I whisper kisses behind her ear.

“Yeah.” Her answer is breathy. “Hope that’s okay.”

“I only hate that I missed it,” I rasp at the fragrant, silky skin of her neck where my teeth marked her. “Sorry about this.”

“My neck isn’t sore either.” She laughs, a liberated sound I want her to keep making.

“Oh.” My hand wanders over her nipple and it beads under the silk. “Here?”

The slightest hitch of her breath is the only indication she’s feeling this.

“No, not there.”