Page 58 of Game Misconduct

twenty-two

. . .

Nick

I wake with a start in an unfamiliar room. A body lies beside me, soft and warm.

What did I do?

A flash of copper in the corner of my eye, and the comforting scent of orange blossoms, clues me in.

Bex.

She texted me. Or rather, her friend did. I need you. Is there any question why I rushed to her side? She was drunk off her tits; I wasn’t about to leave her in that state.

I didn’t have to stay the night, though. But I didn’t want to leave.

Now, she’s wrapped around me, her cheek on my shoulder, her arm around my chest, and her leg slung over mine. She burrows into me, her skin burning into mine even through the fabric of my shirt.

I’m in hell.

My cock is hard, trapped against her hip, and I carefully angle myself away so I don’t poke her with it. The last thing I want is for her to accuse me of coming on to her. I can’t help that my body is constantly responding to her. All she has to do is look at me and my blood thrums in my veins.

After last night’s game, I’m expecting to be sore and achy, but to my surprise, I’m feeling good. The usual morning-after hunger, sure. A few bruises. But no pain. No exhaustion. Just a bone-deep contentment.

Maybe I should fall asleep beside Bex more often.

The thought makes me snort. I have no interest in dying today. Or anytime soon.

Gently untangling myself from her, I shove a pillow into her arms and crawl out of the bed. My shirt rides up as I stretch, and I scratch at my belly, letting my body wake up.

My bed partner lets out a soft snore. Good, she’s still passed out.

I take care of my morning business, snagging a spare toothbrush from the package under her sink. Then I plod into her kitchen, taking inventory.

Her fridge is barren.

A jug of cold brew coffee. A bottle of hazelnut creamer. Three apples, an orange, and a bag of baby carrots that’s seen better days. Two half-empty boxes of Chinese takeout. There aren’t many condiments, either. Just the bare essentials.

She does have three separate packs of ready-made cookie dough: chocolate chip, peanut butter, and white chocolate macadamia.

My heart squeezes. She’s so busy taking care of all of us. When does she take time for herself?

Pulling out my phone, I tap the screen a few times before groceries are ordered, and I pay extra for delivery within the hour.

The rest of her apartment is tiny. There’s a squishy yellow couch and a vibrant forest-green armchair, and the small dining table is covered in baby-blue enamel. I vaguely recognize the furniture from the one time I visited the apartment she shared with Elsy—before I knew her Bex was my Bex, before everything blew up between us.

I settle on the couch, pulling the throw blanket over my lap. A reed diffuser sits on the coffee table, filling the room with her signature orange-blossom scent.

Before long, a knock raps on the door, and I open it to find three paper bags on the welcome mat.

“Thanks,” I call to the delivery person, who’s already halfway down the hall. I open my app and tip them extra for being so quick—and for not having to deal with them face-to-face.

It takes me no time at all to put away the groceries. Although it’s way harder to find the pots and pans—for some reason, they’re all shoved in the oven.

In quick order, I have a tray of bacon baking, veggies chopped, a block of cheese shredded, and a dozen eggs scrambled. It’s impossible to locate a mixing bowl, so I end up stirring the frittata ingredients directly in the Pyrex pan.

The rustle of movement sounds in the apartment. From my angle, I can’t see, but I hear as Bex cracks open her bedroom door and locks herself in the bathroom. The toilet flushes, and water runs, and then she appears at the edge of the kitchen, looking adorably rumpled—and significantly disgruntled.