Page 40 of So This Is War
I pull on the back of my neck.
The vibrator rumbles.
She clasps her hands tighter against the notebook.
I nervously press my lips together.
And we continue to look at each other until she says, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She bends at the waist, yanks the vibrator off my toe, turns it off, and then puts it back in the nightstand where it will never be removed ever again.
She lets out a heavy breath. “There. I did it for you.”
With the tip of my toe, I shut the drawer and look her in the eyes. “That drawer is private.”
“You don’t say?” She chuckles and then gives me a slow once-over. “You know, I never would have guessed you’re a man of kink, although the hooks in your bed were a dead giveaway. Still . . . getting your toe sucked?”
I point at her. “I didn’t enjoy that. I just didn’t know how to react to the situation.”
“So you let the clit sucker continue to do its work?”
I drag my hand over my forehead. “You know, let’s get back to packing. Let’s leave it at I can pack my own condoms.”
“Fair enough.” She goes back to her notebook, and with her poised pen, she asks, “What about the vibrators? Are you going to pack those on your own as well?”
Jesus.
Christ.
“Before I leave for practice,I was hoping you could help me with a few things,” I say as I take a seat at my kitchen island.
We just went through a lot of things. I set her up with contact information for everyone she’ll communicate with. I gave her access to my social media, made her sign an NDA and a code of conduct so she didn’t make a fool of me on social media, told her what I expected, and showed her how I like my shirts folded. That was my own addition. I thought it was clever and demanding.
“Of course. Anything you need. Let me know. I’m here to serve.”
“Yeah, let’s not put it that way,” I say as I smooth my hand over my thigh. I grab my phone and look through the email that Coach Wood sent me, the one I printed out. “So there’s this book I’ve been wanting to read?—”
“Oh? Want me to pick it up from the store for you?”
“Not really, I already have it,” I say. “But I don’t like the font they used, so could you please type it up for me?” I hold back the wince because this is easily the douchiest thing I’ve ever said or asked for. I’ve had my douche moments and slip-ups—textingOye my dickto Ollie, acting as Silas, that was one of them—but this, this tops them all.
“You want me to type up the book in a different font? Like the whole book?”
“Yup,” I say. My leg quivers with instant regret. “Uh, in Arial font please. Something about it is soothing to the eye and easier for me to read.”
“Okay, uh . . . I could get you a Kindle or something. You could change the font that way.”
“Oh, this isn’t on Kindle.”
“It’s not?” she asks. “What book is it?”
Yeah, Posey, what book is it?
If I were Halsey, I’d have a stack of books to choose from. But I’m not the group bookworm. I’m the kinky one—not that any of them know that. The only books I have are stuffed in my nightstand on how to properly tie a woman, and I’m not about to have her type up one of those.
That’s when my eyes land on the coffee table books.
Perfect.
“That one,” I say, pointing at the book on the top that I believe is about Vermont.
