Rookie (Seattle Sharks 4)

Taut, ready to spring.

At his say so.

Under his control.

I was nothing but a weeping puddle beneath his touch.

“Fucking love the feel of you,” he whispered, sliding two fingers inside me. “Every day gets harder to see you and not claim you as mine.”

“But I am yours—”

“Not to the world. To the guys. You’re free. Forbidden but free.” There was a primal growl in his tone.

I rocked my hips as he pumped his fingers inside me, demanding more, wanting it harder. As hard as I’d felt him between my thighs these past few weeks.

“Greedy, greedy woman,” he said through his smile. His eyes on me, never breaking our gaze as he moved and flicked and teased.

“Bentley,” I said, sighing.

I was a living fuse, and as his thumb circled that spot once more, I felt everything I possessed tighten.

“There you are,” he said, feeling how swollen I was for him.

Then he pressed down just as I rocked against him, and I sparked.

Shattered.

Went limp against him as I plunged over the edge.

A matter of minutes, maybe less. That’s all it had taken him.

“Mmm,” he murmured as I clenched and pulsed around his fingers.

Finally, slowly, he drew them from me and situated my pants back to normal.

My breath came in ragged gasps that I tried desperately to ease.

But then he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, growling.

“Delicious.”

I thought I might come again just from that motion alone.

I reached for him, my heart swirling and pulsing and ready to spill its darkest secrets. “Bentley, I—”

“Rookie?” Gage’s voice sounded from outside my door.

Bent quickly took a few steps back, adjusting himself in his pants to hide what I wanted to ride seconds ago, but I was now crippled with fear.

Gage knocked on my door instead of barging in, almost like he knew what he’d find.

Or maybe I was being paranoid.

“Come in,” I said, and Bentley’s eyes flashed wide.

I shrugged. Not inviting him in would be more suspicious, but then again, what if he could scent it on us?

Scent me on him?

Oh fucking hell, I’d been so stupid.

Powerless against everything that was Bentley.

But I knew . . . knew I’d do it again.

“There you are,” Gage said, his eyes darting between the two of us. “We’re about to head to our place, family dinner. You in?”

Bentley nodded, clearing his throat while he glanced at me. “We good for the practice after next?” he asked me. I tilted my head, but his eyes urged me to play along.

“Oh,” I said, nodding a little too quickly. “Yes.”

Gage arched a brow at him. “Scheduling a little training?” he asked. “My help not enough?”

I chuckled. “I’ll pretend not to be offended.”

“No, don’t be,” he hurried to say. “I know your camps were legend. Just figured the rookie had enough help.”

“Apparently not,” Bentley said, walking toward Gage. “I’ll follow you to your place.”

Gage glanced over Bentley’s shoulder. “You’re invited too, Chloe.”

I smiled, the urge to say hell yes on the tip of my tongue. I hadn’t seen the girls in a while and would love the time to fill them in, but . . .

“I can’t,” I said. “Thank you for the invite, but I need to visit . . . someone.”

“Okay,” Gage said. “See you tomorrow.” He winked at me before turning out the door.

Bentley flashed me a supportive look. “You want me to come with you?”

Tears pricked the backs of my eyes—his instant show of support, the way he’d blow off his friends, his family, to be with me—touched me in ways I didn’t even realize.

“No,” I said, smiling at him. “Go be with your family. Have fun.”

Something like defeat crept into his eyes but he quickly cleared it. “Will I see you after?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Like I could stay away.”

Chapter 12

Chloe

“She’s had such a positive attitude since she arrived.” The nurse—John—spoke to me outside my mother’s door, filling me in on her moods and episodes and health in the few days since my last visit. “She really loves it here,” he added.

“I’m so glad to hear it,” I said, my heart expanding.

Maybe she’d find some sense of peace now that she was in the absolute best place. The care facility had specialists who’d studied and treated patients with advanced cases of dementia for years. That is why the monthly bills—for room, board, full-time nurse, and medicines—were so damn high.

But, as I opened the door, finding my mother painting on a canvas set in front of her opened window, I knew it was worth every penny.

“We had to up her dosage,” John said, drawing my attention back to where he stood in the hallway, his voice low.

Genuine concern for his patient radiated through his eyes, and I was happy she had such a great nurse.

“Why?” I asked, whispering to match him.

“She wasn’t lucid on the lower doses. The doctor wanted to try a higher milligram count to see if it would help her focus. She’s been on it three days and hasn’t stopped painting. Or talking,” he added with a smile.

I’d signed the consent forms upon moving here, stating that if the doctor felt it in her best interest, he could approach different doses and techniques. I knew the doctors had much more of an understanding of my mother’s ailment and if they needed to administer something fast, I didn’t want them to have to wait for me to make it here to approve it.

I’d have to travel with the Sharks, eventually. It was a sacrifice I didn’t want to make, but knowing she was in good hands made it easier to sign.

But upped dosages meant higher prices.

The dollar amount should be the last thing on my mind, but my stomach churned with dread.

Bentley and I had been so careless earlier. If I was caught, I would never be able to afford this place.

“Thank you,” I told John. “For taking care of her.”

So much better than I could’ve.

I’d contemplated hiring an in-home nurse and keeping her with me, but there were so many factors that came along with her years-running illness. Things I couldn’t ignore, couldn’t pretend to understand.

No, she needed to be here. In a place that gave her every opportunity to survive. A place focused on her physical and mental well-being.

Keeping her with me—while working full-time—would’ve been selfish. She had friends here, a life she wouldn’t have with a daughter she didn’t always remember.

“Of course,” John said. “She’s a spitfire. I’m quite fond of our chats.”

I smiled at him, and he closed the door behind me when I entered.

The sound drew my mother out of her art—the purple irises that were planted in the gardens beyond her window—and turned to me.

“Hello,” I said, choking back the word mom.

I never used it.

Not until she offered her recognition of me.

“That’s beautiful.” I pointed to the half-done painting as I sank into the chair a few feet away from her.

Her hazel eyes—my eyes—were wary as she tracked my movements. Her mind trying like hell to put the pieces together, to place her finger on where she knew me, why I looked so familiar.

It never got easier.

Not even after ten years.

Though, there was a sense of calm about her. A looseness to her shoulders, a paintbrush poised between her finger and thumb. An alertness to her eyes, even if it didn’t connect to me.

“It’s simple,” she finally said, glancing at her work. “But I do enjoy the feel of the brush in my hand.”

?

?I think it’s wonderful,” I said. “You captured the way the sun hits the lavender petals perfectly.”

A smile shaped her lips, those eyes still calculating.

She dipped her brush in the paint mixture beneath the canvas and continued to make slow, lazy strokes.

I sat and watched her, content and silent. Trying to mentally transmit all the love I possessed for her.

After close to ten minutes, she set the brush down and glanced at me. She jolted in her seat, blinking as if she’d been asleep and had just woken up.

“Oh, Chloe!” She rushed from her seat, throwing her arms around me when I met her in the middle.

I choked back tears.

Some nights she never recognized me.

This hug was rare and wonderful.

“How are you, baby girl?” she asked, pushing my hair away from my face.

“I’m good, Mama.”

“You cut your hair,” she said, fiddling with the strands. “When did you do that?”

I swallowed hard.

I’d changed my hair years ago.

“Recently,” I said. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. You look so grown up,” she said, holding me at an arm’s length before glancing around. “Where’s Bentley? What does he think about you losing those long curls?” There was a tease to her voice, a youthfulness I hadn’t heard in some time.

My heart sank.