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I wish reality was as simple as rewriting a chapter in a book that you’re not happy with. I’d love to delete the way my body reacted to him last night.
With the spike of pure adrenaline from being taken off guard by the loss of electricity, followed by the feeling of his warm skin against mine, my nipples reacted on their own accord—hardening against him with unconscious arousal.
Maybe the fact that it’s been almost eight months since Daniel left, and it’s been that long since I’ve been skin-to-skin with a man, had a small part to play. Not to mention the surprise of seeing Seven break through a door to get to me, and the feeling of his large bulge against my belly as he held me against him.
Is it possible that he unlocked new fantasies in me that I didn’t even know existed? Or is this all stemming from the fact that I haven’t had sex in months?
Am I just projecting my sexual frustration on Seven just because he’s the closest man in my vicinity?
That has to be the reason for it because I’m still madly in love with Daniel.
How could I want to be with anyone else?
How could I consciously want to sleep with a grouchy hockey player who’s known for being standoffish and rude to the media and hasn’t shown me so much as a smirk since I got here?
In one month's time, Daniel will be back and all of this will be a distant nightmare.
My safe and steady, Daniel.
He might not be in as good of shape as Seven with his leaner body build, but he plays on a men’s league basketball team a couple of days a week and is conscious about eating healthy. Seven, on the other hand, has well-defined muscle mass, and I wouldn’t doubt for a second that he could bench-press me without even breaking a sweat if he wanted to.
The physical difference between Daniel and Seven is significant.
Neither Daniel nor I watch professional hockey, but I’ve caught plenty of Hawkeyes games in the local pubs and sports bars where I’ve met Daniel for happy-hour drinks before. You’d be hard-pressed to find any bar downtown that doesn’t play a Hawkeyes game during the NHL season.It's on everywhere in the city and is almost impossible to miss.
I’ve seen Seven move across the ice on a flat-screen TV while I sip on a glass of Pinot Grigio and nibble on fried cheese curds and pita chips that Daniel likes to order when he wants to celebrate a courtroom victory at the bar across from his office. I’ve just never wondered how much muscle was underneath all of those layers of padding before.
I, on the other hand, am still holding on to my freshman fifteen from college. And besides the occasional hot yoga sessions that Sheridan guilt trips me into attending with her, I don’t do much physical fitness, unless the laps I do around our apartment building when I need to work out a scene I’m struggling with in the book I’m writing counts.
Let's just say that I’m a little softer than the man I clung to last night to keep myself upright. He must have noticed that I’m not in as great shape as his female fans that he’s used to taking home.
As much as I’d like to hide out in here all day, Seven said that he would find me a new place to stay today, and really, the sooner I get moved over to a resort hotel room, the better for both of us.
I slide my sleep-deprived body out of bed, hoping for the sounds of Seven somewhere in the house so that we can discuss what arrangements he might have found for me, but I hear nothing.
I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and then grab a brush from my bag.
After Seven left the bathroom last time, I made it safely to my room and was able to towel dry off. Thankfully, I wasn’t as soapy as I thought. The shower had rinsed away most of the suds before the power went out.
A nice thorough spray down of the leave-in conditioner from my overnight bag saved my hair from yet another terrible hair day.
I look in the mirror while I comb through my strands and decide against trying with makeup.
I just don’t feel like putting in the effort. Not that Seven would have any interest in me with or without makeup. I think that was made pretty obvious based on the fact that he couldn’t get away from me fast enough last night.
I set my hairbrush down and then took my toothbrush to the bathroom. I may skip my makeup routine but I won’t gross either of us out with morning breath.
Once I have a clean, minty mouth, I open the bathroom door and listen for him. I hear the faint sound of pots and pans clinking together over the loud wind still pushing against the house. He’s up, and it’s time to face the music.
The sooner we’re rid of each other, the sooner I can resume the reason for why I’m here.
To write.
“Morning,” I say as I step out of the hallway and into the kitchen.
Seven is standing in front of a gas range stove, flipping over a pan full of over-easy eggs and slices of ham in a second skillet. He’s dressed in thick canvas cargo pants and a t-shirt donning the logo of a bar called Scallywag's, with a cartoon Basset Hound stretched tight across his back.
I don’t know why seeing Seven wearing a cartoon dog on his shirt makes me grin, but it’s not what I expected to see on him. Maybe it's because I’m not used to seeing him in much clothing at all.
