Page 35 of Playing it Safe

But he got back last night, and my entire body relaxed when I heard the door beep as he entered. That’s when I knew for certain I was in serious trouble.

“You’re done,” the trainer says, and I sit up, staring. Senga looks confused. “You’re ready to ice and head out.” She gestures toward the door.

“Right. Sorry.”

I change and find Ducky and Tate in the hall. Ducky is pulling her hair up, her phone tucked under her chin. "Wings? I'm starving."

"I'm going to skip," I say, shouldering my bag. "I'm wiped."

Tate grins. "Oh right. You have a live-in man to go home to now."

"He's not—" I stop. I'm so tired of correcting people. And the truth is, I like it. I like having Cameron at my house. I like knowing he'll be there when I open the door, probably reading, probably with the cat. Probably having fixed something else before I even noticed it was broken.

"Have fun," Ducky calls after me. "Tell Mayhem we say hi."

It doesn’t occur to me to let him know I’m skipping dinner out with the gals. The drive home takes twelve minutes. I use every one of them to think about what I'm going to eat at home, not about the ridge I felt against my ass at Enclave or the sound Cameron made when I kissed him in the car. I am a professional athlete preparing for the most important games of my career. I am not thinking about Cameron Miller's mouth. Or his hands. I'm a mess.

The house is quiet when I come in. Puck is on the windowsill — his spot now, sunlight or not. Cameron's shoes are by the door, and his jacket hangs on the hook he's claimed. The kitchen is clean. There's something in a slow cooker that smells incredible.

"Cameron?" I drop my bag. No answer.

I climb the stairs. His door is cracked because the latch is finicky — it’s open just enough for sound to carry. And what I hear stops me on the landing.

A breath. Low and slow. Then a soft groan.

My hand freezes on the banister. I know that sound. I know it the way you know a song from the first two notes. My brain says to walk away. My body doesn't move.

Another sound. A shift in fabric. The creak of the mattress. And then a rough exhale that sets every nerve in my body alight like a circuit board.

I step closer. I don't decide to. My feet just go.

Through the crack in the door, I can see him. He's on his back on the guest bed, shirt off, shorts pushed down. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, and his hand is wrapped around his length, moving in slow, tight strokes.

I see his chest for the first time. The tattoos spread across his skin — more than I imagined, dark ink over hard muscle. I can make out a pulley on his ribs, a token near his collarbone, and lines and images I can't fully read from here. His stomach tightens with each stroke. His jaw is clenched.

He doesn't look like he's enjoying himself. He looks like he's trying to get rid of something. Like this is maintenance, not pleasure. Miserable, mechanical, and necessary.

Then his eyes open.

He sees me in the crack of the door, and everything stops. His hand stills. His chest rises and falls. We stare at each other, and the floor tilts beneath me.

Except he doesn't cover himself. He doesn't look away. His eyes lock on mine — dark, steady, waiting — and the look on his face isn't embarrassment. It's a question.

"Don't stop," I whisper.

His hand moves again. Slower now. His eyes stay on mine, his lips part, and I watch his fingers tighten and his hips shift. I've never seen anything like this in my life. The raw honesty of it. The vulnerability of this massive man, laid out and exposed, letting me watch him.

"Do you like that?" His voice is rough. Low. The accent thick.

I push the door open and nod.

“Why don’t you come over here and look closer?” His voice sounds unfamiliar, heavy. I can’t really tell if I’m dreaming, but I can’t imagine not doing as he says.

My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat. I climb onto the bed and kneel beside him, looking down at his body. His eyes track me with an intensity that makes my skin burn.

Cameron groans, stroking himself. I watch how he rubs his thumb across his tip, grunting. “You want to join me, sweetheart?”

I wriggle where I kneel, my body full of fireflies. I nod. “I can…”