Marek (Cold Fury Hockey #11)(12)
Lilly.
I’m so fucking far out of my comfort zone that my stomach is constantly knotted when I’m around the kid. She’s utterly perfect, and I’m not saying that because she looks just like me. But God, my naturally wavy hair that actually forms ringlets of curls is amazing. And she has my eyes.
My fucking eyes.
Both Gracen and I have blue eyes, but the fact that the color is spelled B-L-U-E is about the only similarity. Mine are a deep blue, the color of denim. They can become quite dark when I’m feeling strong emotion, but I’ve been told they look like sapphires when the sunlight hits them. At least some chick I was hanging with at the beach told me that once, but I saw it yesterday with Lilly. She picked a dandelion for her mom and held it up for me to inspect. She smiled at me as she titled her face back to the sun and her eyes sparkled like gemstones.
Gracen’s eyes, though, are completely different. They’re pale blue with a darker ring around the edge. When you look close, you’ll see flecks of gold in them as well. I always thought they were magical eyes…hypnotizing.
Used to love fucking her and looking down into those eyes.
I take another swallow of the liquor and my head swims.
The noise doesn’t penetrate at first because my senses are dulled somewhat from the hours of drinking today. I could barely work my Uber app to get a ride home, so I know damn well I’ve got no business continuing to drink.
But I hear soft footsteps padding down the staircase that extends upward to the second-floor bedrooms and downward into my basement. The staircase is just to my left on the other side of the half wall that separates the casual living room from the formal area.
Just a wall separates me from Gracen, because I know that’s her coming down those stairs. Her steps fall lightly and with caution so as not to make too much noise. If that was Lilly, she would come down with distinctive clops, as she takes one step at a time and with determination as she holds the rail. Of course she wouldn’t be up this late anyway.
Yes…I may have studied my daughter a time or two. The way I watch her would be considered creepy if she weren’t my blood and I hadn’t seen her in three years.
Gracen steps into my line of sight and my lungs seem to freeze up. Classic Gracen wearing nothing but a T-shirt to bed. Not a baggy men’s tee, but one of her own well-fitted T-shirts that hugs her petite frame and C-cup breasts that are unrestrained right now. They jiggle a little when she walks. My eyes drop to her ass, barely covered in a pair of white bikini panties that sit low on her hips and ride up just under the curve of her ass cheeks.
Despite the copious amounts of alcohol I’ve consumed, my body instantly responds to her. My cock thickens and swells, pushing against the zipper of my jeans. I silently lift my glass and polish off the rest of the bourbon, bringing the empty glass to rest on my knee.
My eyes are glued helplessly to her body as she walks into the kitchen. She moves gracefully and lightly. The lower half of her body is blocked by the kitchen island until she gets to the other side where the refrigerator stands. She’s in the shadows, looking mysterious and lonely, until she pulls the door open and the light spills across her, the cold air making her nipples tighten and poke through her shirt.
I stifle a groan and shift my hips while my free hand pushes my erection to the side of my zipper for some relief.
Christ, I hate to react to her this way. I try to pull forth my anger and will it to make her unattractive, but fuck if all I can see is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known made sexier by the fact she fucking carried my kid in her womb.
It’s totally whacked.
Gracen peruses the contents of the fridge for a moment before reaching in and pulling out a pie dish covered with tinfoil. I’m thoroughly disappointed when she closes the door and her body falls back into the muted shadows cast by the small light over the stove.
I silently watch as she places the pie dish on the island counter, rummages through a drawer for a fork, then peels back the foil.
That’s the Gracen I know. She wouldn’t bother with a plate and to cut out a slice. She’d dig right in with her fingers if a fork wasn’t available.
She forks out some of the pie and I have no clue what type it is. I imagine the tingle of cinnamon if it’s apple, or perhaps the sweet-tart burst of flavor from cherries. Regardless, I stare fascinated and dick raging hard as she opens those plump lips to take a bite.
Her eyes close and her head tilts back slightly, and I’m done when a low, sexy moan bubbles out of her that’s loud enough to carry across the living room to me.
“Is it that good?” I ask, my voice hoarse and gruff.
She’s unflappable as ever. Most people would scream and probably curse if someone spoke to them unexpectedly from the shadows.
Gracen merely jolts slightly, her eyes snapping over toward where I’m sitting. She stares at me a moment and I wonder if the darkness conceals my attraction to her that’s thumping between my legs.
Giving a slight cough, she clears her throat and asks oh so politely, “Would you like a piece?”
God, would I ever like a piece.
And not of pie.
I don’t answer her, but push up from the chair. I tilt slightly to the left but correct myself. Ambling over to the wet bar that sits at the base of the stairs and separates the two living areas, I concentrate on walking a straight line so I don’t appear as drunk as I feel.