At his words, I let go and shatter all over him, arching back as my orgasm rocks through my body. Rhodes pulls out, fisting his cock over me while I ride the wave of pleasure. I watch him hungrily, then he’s coming, too. He closes his eyes, grinning.
“Perfect,” he says, leaning forward with another kiss. I wrap my hand around his neck to hold him there, reveling in his rapidly beating heart.
He grabs a T-shirt from my floor to clean us off and when he’s done, we lay there quietly, tangled in each other, breathing in the aftermath.
“Shower with me?” I murmur, drowsy but aware that we probably need to wash off anyway. Might as well do it together.
Rhodes smirks, running a lazy hand down my spine. “Fair warning—I can’t promise to behave in there.”
I huff out a laugh, already moving toward the bathroom. “I’d expect nothing less.” I’m not even remotely surprised when he backs me up against the shower wall, water cascading down our bodies as he makes me fall apart all over again. We spend more time exploring than actually washing, but neither of us seems to mind.
We stumble back into bed, warm and spent, and Rhodes tucks me against his side, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of my head.
“Oh, no,” I say, turning my head to face him, suddenly serious. His eyes light with alarm. “You’re a cuddler, aren’t you?” I smirk mischievously.
He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Yes, Monroe. I’m a cuddler.” He brings me closer to him and grabs the blanket from the end of the bed, laying it over the top of us. “Deal with it.”
I sigh, sinking into him, intothis.His arm is draped over my waist, holding me close like he has no intention of letting go.
As I’m on the precipice of sleep, Rhodes murmurs something unintelligible into my shoulder.
“What?” I whisper to him.
“Are you busy on the fourteenth?” The fourteenth? My brain is trying to catch up with this seemingly random conversation development.
“Like, on Valentine’s Day?”
“Yeah, Monroe. Like on Valentine’s Day.”
My brain short-circuits for a moment.
“I don’t know, Rhodes. Areyoubusy?”
I feel him smile next to me, face still pressed against my skin.
“Let me take you out on a real date,” he whispers. My stomach drops to my knees and I suck in an audible breath.
“I’ll have to check my calendar,” I murmur into my pillow, knowing full well my calendar is clear. Rhodes knows it, too. He chuckles next to me and tugs me closer, tangling his legs with mine. I’m still awake when his breathing turns slow and even, the weight of him draped over me, heavy with sleep.
“All right, McKnight,” I say to a sleeping Rhodes. “I’ll go out with you on Valentine’s Day.”
It takes me a long time to fall asleep after that. I think I could stay here forever, and that thought is finally starting to feel more comforting than scary.
Chapter Twenty
Rhodes
I’ve spent the last three weeks buried between Monroe’s thighs every spare second I have.AndI’d gotten her to go on an actual date with me. On Valentine’s Day, no less. I’m still riding the high of both of those things. If she’d been agreeable, I would have done something like riding in a hot air balloon or brought her someplace really fancy. She was not agreeable, however, so we did not do either of those things. Instead, we went to a concert for an underground band in downtown Hartford. She got to watch the show, and I got to watch her. I’m making so much progress that I’m starting to forget she still has rules. Monroe is starting to forget she has rules, too, I think.
The whiplash of spending time with Monroe while simultaneously fielding calls from my increasingly persistent father is getting overwhelming. Eventually, Iam going to have to deal with it. But the Wolverines are on a winning streak right now, and I’m choosing to ignore my daddy issues and focus on that. That, and watching Monroe prep for the clinic.
It’s a week and a half away, and she has been an absolute machine. School during the day, clinic prep at night. At first, I was only catching glimpses—Monroe tucked into the corner of the rink, scrawling notes on a clipboard. She’d be talking to herself, muttering combinations under her breath. A tilt of her head. A furrow of her brow. Then she’d nod to herself and skate out, testing whatever new idea she’s just cooked up in that brilliant, stubborn brain of hers.
She took my advice and scrapped the entire clinic plan she was trying to revise, and the clinic is going to be better for it. She’s honestly over-preparing for a bunch of kids who barely know how to skate anyway. I’d never tell her that, though, because all of her work is healing her. You can see it.
Sometimes I’d meet her there at night just to watch. She’d blast her playlist through the rink speakers and go over her notes again and again. She didn’t really need my help, but I think she liked that I was there anyway.
When she isn’t on the ice or in class, she’s reviewing old footage in her dad’s office, flipping through videos on her phone, analyzing angles, landings, toe pick placements from her beginner-level competitions. I like to peek in after practice and catch her sending herself voice memos. Making diagrams, bent over a notebook, marking up an old routine, chewing on the cap of a pen like she’s strategizing a war.