Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
He was so fucking comfortable he might as well have been a La-Z-Boy.
Even now, I was fighting against this strange ache in my chest at the way he looked, the way he felt. Thick navy sweatpants hugged his hips, and he was bare from the waist up, his ridiculous muscles like a million-dollar painting of mountains and valleys. His mahogany hair was a tousled mess, the scruff on his jaw deliciously inviting, the permanent smirk on his lips lazy and carefree.
He was so different from the man I’d met that day at auditions. He’d been so buttoned up then, so scared of living.
I liked that he looked different now.
I liked to think I might be the reason for that devil-may-care vibe he wore so effortlessly.
“Thanks for watching that with me so I didn’t have to do it alone,” I said.
“Thanks for asking me to.” He thumbed my jaw, his eyes ping-ponging between mine. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“Let me cook for you.”
It wasn’t a question, and my stomach flipped with the little demand of it, with the sure way he said it — as if he knew I wouldn’t say no.
“Okay,” I breathed, smiling. “I’m just going to do a little stretching and then I’ll join you out there.”
“You and your stretches in bed,” he growled. “Going to be the death of me.”
Braden covered my smile with another long, slow, lazy kiss, one that had us both moaning and inhaling deep before he rolled me off him and smacked my ass for good measure.
“Don’t, or we’ll starve.”
“We could just bring the food to bed? I do have that on my list,” I confessed.
He balked. “Eating while you fuck?”
“No,” I laughed. “Food play. You know, whipped cream, chocolate drizzle…”
Braden scrubbed a hand over his face, revealing his bottom lip pinned between his teeth when he let the hand fall against his thigh. “So what I’m hearing is Tuscan chicken for dinner and you for dessert.”
“If you insist.”
I smirked as he shook his head, pointing a finger at me as he made his way out of the bedroom. “Still Trouble. Capital fucking everything at this point.”
My smile climbed as he swung out of the room, and I took ten minutes to stretch, bending my body into every juicy and delicious yoga pose I felt like I needed until I reluctantly peeled myself from his bed for the first time in hours. I was nude, my panties ruined from how he’d teased me when I first arrived, so I dug through his drawers until I found a pair of boxer briefs, rolling the band twice once I had them on. I slipped on a shirt that said North Boston Rebels next, clutching the fabric to my nose and inhaling like a lunatic before I joined him in the kitchen.
Braden’s house was exactly as I expected it to be.
It was understated, warm, and quietly beautiful.
It wasn’t flashy in the way I imagined some pro athletes’ homes might be — no sterile expanses of white marble or furniture that looked too expensive to sit on. His place felt lived in. Every inch of it felt intentional.
It was a modest Green Lake home with clean, mid-century lines, warm wood tones, earthy textures, and oversized windows that pulled in soft afternoon light and a glimpse of the water beyond.
A leather sofa sat across from a stone fireplace, softened by a worn rug, a few leafy plants, and shelves lined with books, candles, and framed photos. His family was everywhere. So were little pieces of his past — college teammates, game-day snapshots, and a display shelf with his championship ring resting in a glass box.
Even the home gym visible down the hall felt practical instead of showy — neat, high-end, and built for discipline rather than image.
The whole house felt like Braden: solid, calm, and more interested in meaning than appearance.
I padded into the kitchen just as Braden had gathered all his ingredients. He bent to retrieve a cutting board and plucked a knife from a block, smirking at me as I sidled up on one of the barstools at his kitchen island to watch the show.
And what a show it was.
Braden stood at the kitchen island barefoot and shirtless, those navy sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair still slightly disheveled from the hours we’d spent tangled up in his sheets. There was something quietly devastating about the sight of him like this — not dressed for the field or the cameras, but simply at home, moving with calm efficiency through his own kitchen.
The flex of muscle in his arms as he chopped chicken, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the ease in his body — it all felt impossibly intimate.
I didn’t realize a man cooking in his own kitchen was a kink for me.
Apparently, it very much was.