Because this man…
“Touch me.”
He shudders.
“Show me what it can be like.”
He drops his head, resting it against my collarbone, his groan shaky. “You’re killing me.”
And I don’t know if it’s feminine instinct or just that I’m starting to know this man, but the rasped-out words puffed against my skin, the way his hands are clenched in the blankets even as he keeps the weight of his body off of mine undoes me.
I lift my leg, wrap it around his waist. “I need you.”
His curse turns the air blue, something so creative that even I, who’s spent so much time around hockey players and has heard my fair share of creative cursing, is surprised.
But only for a moment.
Because then his mouth is on mine and he’s kissing me in that hot, wet, and needy way of his, the one that threatens to melt my bones from the inside out and turn me into a puddle of goo.
But he still doesn’t give me all of his body weight, doesn’t pin me in place.
Looking after me, even now.
Even as the tension ratchets through his body and the desire blooms between us, he’s still watching out for me.
I wonder if my heart ever stood a chance against him.
Then I…well, I stop thinking.
He strokes his fingers along the outside of my arm, down, down, playing over the inside of my wrist, my palm. I shiver, goose bumps prickling on my skin, my breaths going shaky as he slips them beneath the hem of my tank top, trailing them over my belly.
The callouses are a little rough but it’s the sweetest sort of abrasion, as though his touch sets every single one of my nerve endings on fire.
For this man.
For him and only ever him.
They slowly make their way up, tracing over my rib cage, leisurely making their way to?—
“Oh!” I groan, my head pressing back into the pillows, arching into the hot brand of his touch. He squeezes, molding my flesh with his slightly roughened palms, but it’s when he brushes his thumb over my nipple that I feel things melt inside me.
Or maybe they tighten.
“Like that?” he asks, his lips at my ear.
I shiver and nod. “You know I do.”
A flick of his tongue. “Tell me what else you like.”
“I—”
But then he’s brushing my nipple again and I’m gasping and he’s kissing his way down my throat, nudging the straps of my tank top down with his nose, peppering kisses over my skin. “Do you like this?”
“Y-yes.”
A tug drags the material of my shirt down, exposing the tops of my breasts.
“What about this?” A flash of his teeth on my skin, the slight sting soothed by his tongue, by his lips.
