“Huh. Well that’s . . . interesting.” I accepted a long time ago that Alex is the better player on the ice, but I always thought I had a leg up—proverbially speaking—in this department. As a competitive person, I’m displeased to find out he’s winning in that area, too. So far he’s more accomplished in hockey, relationships, cock size, and who the fuck knows what else.

“How were the guys today? I’m sure they had all kinds of things to say.” Charlene bites her lip and dips a finger in her hot chocolate before slipping it in her mouth. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be intentionally sexual or not. I choose to pretend it didn’t happen rather than offer her something significantly larger to dip in there.

“Randy wanted to know who wore the ball gag.”

Charlene’s eyes widen. “What did you say?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t know. Just curious, I suppose.”

“I told them no one wears it.”

“That’s it?”

“And that you don’t like the way it tastes.”

She traces the edge of the donut on her knee. “I could try it again if you want.”

Would I like to see Charlene wearing a ball gag? I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed. But is it something I need? Absolutely not.

“I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t one-hundred percent enjoy. My concern today is that you weren’t overwhelmed by questions, or a sense of responsibility or ownership for what happened. I don’t want you to feel as though you have to tell me anything you talked to the girls about today, but I hope if there’s something that isn’t working between us, you would come to me so I could try to fix it.”

She tips her head to the side, eyes locked on mine. “I like how we are together. And I like that you’re here now.”

“As do I.”

She takes another sip of her drink, licking away the marshmallow foam that sticks to her lip. She manages to leave a little behind.

“You missed some.” I rub my thumb over the spot.

I’m not disappointed when Charlene’s fingers wrap around my wrist and her lips close over my thumb, swirling slowly, eyes locked on mine. These kinds of real conversations aren’t always easy with Charlene because we’re both so guarded. But we can communicate incredibly well in other ways.

When she releases my thumb, I replace it with my lips. I didn’t kiss Charlene last night, except for maybe once or twice. Which drives her crazy.

Charlene loves making out. She would kiss until her lips are raw if I let her. Sometimes I deny her, so the next time we’re together I can capitalize on how much she seems to love the simple act of kissing.

I stroke inside her mouth on a leisurely sweep. Charlene moans, low and sweet, fingertips dragging softly down my cheek as she opens wider, inviting me deeper. Which is the exact moment I disengage and retreat to the other side of the couch.

“Your toes should be dry now. I can put on a second coat.”

She’s still clutching her mug in one hand. Her eyes dart down, and she exhales a shaky breath.

I take my time with the nail polish, making sure each toe is perfect before moving on to the next. I know Charlene is still trying to figure out what’s going on here. My being here, unannounced, bringing her flowers and chocolate, painting her toenails for fuck’s sake—I’ve never done any of this before. Not in two years. And I’m starting to see very clearly how that needs to change. Because tonight I’ve realized something very important. Up until now, I’ve only seen the side of Charlene she thinks I want.

And while I adore that she likes to try new things and experiment with sex positions and ridiculous toys, I think I might enjoy this just as much.

Once I’m done, I clean up the discarded Q-tips and tissues and take them all to the kitchen. I toss everything in the garbage and wash my hands, then root around in Charlene’s cupboards for a snack. She has an odd balance between holistic stuff and junk food. I hit the jackpot when I find a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos stuffed in the back of the cupboard. I check the fridge for beer, but Charlene isn’t big on it, so I’m unsurprised to come up empty handed. She has ginger ale and lots of milk. She also has a container of onion dip, which will go perfectly with the Doritos. I snatch the Godiva bag from the counter and bring it with me to the living room.

Charlene’s expression goes from hopeful to crestfallen. “What’re you doing?”

“I thought you might want a snack.”

“Doritos and onion dip? Why did you even come here if you’re going to eat that?” Charlene seems annoyed, angry even.

“Would you like me to find something else?”

She throws her hands up in the air. “Yes! You ruin making out when you have Dorito breath.”

“I didn’t come here to make out. I came here to spend time with you.”

Her brows pull down. “Why can’t we do both? Why does it have to be one or the other? Or do you not . . . want me like this? Do you need me to change?” She motions to her attire, her confusion endearing, and painfully understandable.

I drop the snacks on the coffee table and sit down beside her. “I always want you, Charlene.”

“So why the Doritos? I don’t get it. You come here with gifts, paint my toenails, tease me with that kiss, and then pull out gross-breath snacks like it all makes some kind of sense. What the hell?”

She’s definitely angry, which seems to defeat the entire purpose of me showing her I want more than sex. “You know that I care about you, don’t you?”

She purses her lips, eyes roaming over my face as if she’ll find some kind of explanation there. “Yes. I know that.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How do you know?” I ask, because I want to understand what I do to make her see that, since I honestly don’t know.

“You take care of my needs before your own. You understand when I take things farther then I mean to, and you always know where my limit is. You’ll let me try new things even if it’s not always something you’re keen on. And you bring me flowers and chocolate because you think that’s what I need based on someone else’s idea of what constitutes normal. That’s how I know.”

It doesn’t escape me that most of these references apply to our sex life, except for the last part, which only serves to reinforce how change is necessary, but it may need to be a bit more gradual. I have until the end of June, which should give me lots of time to make Charlene see that we’re supposed to be more.

That way, if I’m traded at the end of the season, asking her to come with me won’t be something she’ll balk at. Broaching that subject now doesn’t make sense, not when flowers and chocolate cause this kind of reaction.

“Darren? Did I say something wrong?”

I realize I’ve been staring at her, saying nothing in response. I smile in what I hope is reassurance. “No, firefly, you didn’t say anything wrong.”

She skims my knuckles and scoots a little closer. “This morning you threatened to kiss me for hours the next time we were together.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” I drag a single finger along the column of her throat. “Would you like me to make good on that now?”

“Mmm. I would like that very much.”

I shift until I’m in the center of the couch and move Charlene to straddle me. I press the softest kiss to her lips, then trail my fingers along her throat. I don’t go back to her mouth like she wants me to. Instead I start at her fingertips, kissing each one, working my way over her knuckles, following the vein on the inside of her wrist all the way to her elbow. I keep going, up the inside of her arm, over her shoulder, across her collarbone, along the side of her neck and the edge of her jaw to her chin.

The entire time Charlene grinds over me, rubbing herself on my erection through the barrier of clothing. If we were naked, I’d be inside her already. For some reason, restraint is difficult to find and hold on to tonight. Maybe because everything is shifting for me, and I want it to be the same for Charlene.

I’m about to continue the kiss torture, starting with the neglected fingertips of the other hand, but Charlene grabs my chin to keep me from moving away. She doesn’t try to kiss me. Instead her eyes meet mine, uncertainty flickering there. “Stay here for a minute, please.”

I lean in and kiss the corner of her mouth before I brush my lips over hers. I curve my finger around the shell of her ear and ease my thumb along her throat until I reach the soft spot under her chin. Her pulse hammers there, hard and steady with untended need.

I angle her head slightly and tip my own in the opposite direction. Breathing in the warmth of her shaky exhale, I taste chocolate and marshmallow before our mouths are even connected. I press my lips to hers, reveling in the softness before I stroke along the seam. She tastes sweet, as she always does, and that little buzz of lightning always follows, much like the shock of light that appears in the sky when a firefly makes its presence known.

I don’t stay for a minute. I linger at her lips, sweeping inside her mouth over and over, slow and languorous, as if there is no other place to be, and we’re speaking through kisses that never end.

I have no idea how long we make out, but Charlene’s lips are swollen and her chin is red from stubble burn by the time I disengage.