Page 47 of Hot As Ice

That…never happens.

I didn’t even have to take a sleeping pill or listen to that supposedly mind-calming binaural beats bullshit that promises a deep sleep but never fucking works. What the fuck?

This is the second time I had a decent night’s rest this week, and it’s coincided with being balls deep in Stevie right before. Is she the fucking cure for my insomnia after all these years?

I let go of her and flip onto my back, staring at the ceiling. I need some time to process this new development.

I started having trouble sleeping after my mom died when I was eight. I witnessed her death. The nightmares were terrifying and relentless for years. In them, I was always too late to stop her from falling down the stairs and breaking her neck. Sometimes I was running toward her, watching her mouth hang open in fear and shock as gravity took her. Other times my fingers were just touching hers, my hand almost reaching to grab hers and pull her towards me. But never close enough. She always fell. I always woke up to the knowledge that she’d been taken from me, and I’d never see her again.

I still haven’t stopped blaming myself.

The nightmares don’t come nightly anymore, but they do come, waking me in the middle of the night, keeping me awake until dawn when I give up trying to go back to sleep and get up to go to practice. Over the years, I’ve somehow learned to function on very little sleep. I’d forgotten how good it feels to get real rest.

Getting out of bed, I pull on my sweatpants and go to the bathroom. When I get out, Stevie is still sound asleep, and I really like the way she looks in my bed, obviously comfortable and feeling safe.

I head to the kitchen and get the coffee brewing, then try to decide what to make my princess for breakfast. Fuck me, I’ve never made a woman breakfast in my life. I’ve almost never even had women spend the night. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.

I rummage through the ingredients in my fridge and pantry. I could make eggs, bacon, sausage, and blueberry pancakes. I have a feeling Stevie likes blueberry pancakes. Good thing my housekeeper keeps my fridge stocked, ‘cause I’m not sure how many college-aged men actually remember to go out and buy blueberries.

My grandfather tried to force a private chef on me, but I enjoy cooking. There’s something very meditative about it. Trying new recipes relaxes me like few things do. I like the challenge. Even when I fuck up, I learn something new every time. Blueberry pancakes, though, I’ve made a few times before and they’ve always turned out good.

I hope the smell of breakfast will wake Stevie up. There’s no practice or class today. It’s the one day this week that I’m fully free. Stevie can stay as long as she wants. The thought feels good and right in my soul. I want her puttering around in my jersey, eating the food I’ve made for her. I can finally give her a full tour of my place, then maybe we can fuck in the shower. I want to soap her up again.

I have six pancakes stacked on a plate when she finally emerges from my bedroom. She’s wearing one of my hockey hoodies, and nothing else. It hits her mid-thigh, her legs bare and sexy as fuck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I say. “I hope you like blueberry pancakes. I also made eggs and bacon.”

“I like all those things,” she says, coming into the kitchen and pulling out one of the chairs around the island. She takes a seat, not meeting my eyes.

“Do you want coffee or orange juice?” I ask.

“Both.”

I pour the orange juice first. “Tell me how you take your coffee.”

She pulls the glass of orange juice towards her chest, circling it with both hands. Someone’s feeling shy this morning. “I’ll do it,” she says, taking the mug of coffee I pour for her. She still won’t look at me.

I turn back toward the stove, busying myself with making more pancakes.

“Can you drop me off later?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

I’m not about to tell her I was imagining her spending the whole day with me. Then I remember the contract and how she’s promised to be available to me at any time of day and night. I should hold her to it; I’ve gone soft.

“Eat up,” I say, putting a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon in front of her. “I’m fucking you in the shower before you leave.”

I stare at her and she finally meets my gaze. I see the heat there. She wants to get fucked in the shower. She quickly looks back down at her plate, picking up a fork and poking at the scrambled eggs.

“Did you hear me?” I say gruffly.

She nods. “I heard you.”

“Look at me.”

She slowly lifts her gaze. “What?”