A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(50)

“I don’t want to mess with your game.”

“You won’t. I had the best practice ever today. I was nearly flawless.”

“I have to finish up some paperwork and manage emails still.”

“That’s okay, I can wait.”

“We’ll have to stop at my place to get me a change of clothes.”

“I don’t mind at all.” It’s quite perfect, actually, because tonight I’d like to take her out for dinner, and I’d also like her to bring a few extra outfits to leave at my place.

“Okay. I’ll stay over again.”

I hang around the office until she’s finished with emails and paperwork, partly to make sure she’s really okay the way she says she is, and also because I refuse to leave her alone on the off chance Corey should come back. I want to say something to Jake about Corey, but it’s not my place to interfere, and I feel as though there’s more to this than Queenie’s letting on.

I’m aware pushing her tonight isn’t the best option, though. At least not without softening her up first. She’s too on edge, and storms get out of control when there are too many variables affecting them.

So instead I treat her exactly as she deserves to be: like she’s my queen.

Jake has to stay late—I’m assuming because of the trade, especially with the official season underway, and this will mean shifting around lines and players to accommodate Slater. So when we get to Queenie’s, I follow her into her bedroom and stretch out on her double bed while she packs her overnight bag. I have to bend my knees and rest my feet against the wrought iron frame to make myself fit.

Her room is ultrafeminine, painted a soft, buttery yellow, her quilt a patternless pale green, the accent pillows also pastel.

“You look ridiculous on this bed, FYI.” She tickles the bottom of my foot as she crosses over to the dresser for the third time.

I yank it out of reach and rub the spot.

She pokes at her cheek with her tongue, expression suddenly full of mischief. “Are you ticklish?”

“No. You just surprised me.” It’s a lie, but not a harmful one.

“I don’t believe you.” She tosses a lacy mint-green bra on the comforter. I bet it looks amazing against her tanned skin.

She grabs for my foot again, but my reflexes are far better than hers. I gather both of her wrists in one hand and pull her onto the bed. After stretching her arms up over her head, I roll over on top of her and prop myself up on my forearm. “Is this okay?”

“You on top of me is always okay.” The words vibrate with excitement.

“I’m glad you feel that way.” I brush my lips over hers and pull back. “Are you ticklish?”

Her eyes flare with understanding, throat bobbing thickly. “Not really,” she lies.

“Are you sure about that?” I drag a single finger down the inside of her forearm to her elbow, smiling as goose bumps rise along her skin.

“King,” she half warns, half moans.

I kiss the sensitive spot at the bend in her elbow. “Yes, my queen?” She shivers, and I lift my gaze to hers as I continue to trail my finger along the inside of her bicep until I reach her underarm.

She shrieks and wriggles. So I do it again until she’s begging me to stop the tickle torture while laugh-crying. The mood shifts and I release her hands, but instead of grabbing on to my hair or curling her fingers around the nape of my neck, she stays exactly as she is, panting, eyes suddenly soft.

“Why do you want to be with me?” She hooks her fingers around one of the decorative wrought iron curls behind her head.

“Because you’re you. What other reason would there be?”

She smiles, but sadness shifts behind her eyes, and I want to understand what’s put that emotion there. Today hasn’t been easy for her, and I have a feeling her past with Corey is more complicated than she’s letting on. Instead of asking questions, I kiss her. Our tongues tangle, and still her fingers stay curled around the bedframe.

It isn’t until I whisper in her ear that I want to feel her touch that she finally lets go. We undress each other between kisses and caresses. This time when I enter her, I don’t lose control. I show her without words that she’s worth whatever trouble she seems to think she’s going to bring my way. I’d rather have her chaos than stay stuck in the calm, where everything is lackluster.

An orgasm later, bracketed by two for Queenie, she’s stretched out beside me, long hair cascading over my shoulder and arm, hand splayed out on my chest, leg hooked over mine.

I’m currently wondering how long I have to reasonably wait to tell her how I feel about her. It’s probably too soon. And Queenie seems a little gun shy about feelings, so it’s better to hold off awhile longer. I’d ask Bishop, because he’s my best friend, but he’s also generally clueless about relationships and how to manage them, let alone the emotional component. I can talk to Hanna, though. She always has objective, thoughtful advice.

I look around for a clock, wondering exactly how long we’ve been at it, and I notice the artwork hanging on the wall across from her bed. I’m not sure how I missed it before, other than my attention being fully on Queenie while she sifted through her underwear drawer and made painfully difficult decisions about which pairs she should leave at my house. I obviously gave her some input.