She frowns.
“But”—I swipe my thumb lightly along her cheek, tracing the edge of the flush there—“I’m also not convinced that knowing all I do about you, knowing how beautiful and smart and funny and sweet you are…I’m not convinced I can stay away any longer, baby.”
NINETEEN
Joey
I don’t feel empty.
In fact, I feel so full that I’m overflowing.
I need to say something profound, something that can match what his words have brought to me, but I’ve got nothing.
This isn’t a motivational speech in a locker room, hyping the guys up so they kick some ass on the ice.
This is…my life.
This is dangerous and probably stupid and will likely leave me more shattered than I’ve ever been before.
Because I want it so much that I can taste it, feel it,loveit.
And that’s a drug I can’t resist.
So, instead of calling this, instead of snagging my bag and making my retreat, I answer his quiet admission of not being able to stay away with, “Then don’t.”
The air goes taut.
His blue eyes darken with desire.
Then hemoves.
One hand diving into my hair, tilting my head back again, the other going to my waist. One tug has my body flush against his and I gasp because the feel of him—hard and male and so damned strong—makes my knees wobble.
“Too much?” he murmurs, head dropping, lips lightly brushing my earlobe as he speaks.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s good.” A beat. “And not nearly enough.”
His mouth whispers along my jaw, drifting close to my lips. “What about this?” His tongue darts out. “Is it too much?” he asks, the hot puffs of his words glazing my skin.
“No, sweetheart.” My head drops back when he moves to my neck, mouth lightly pressing to my skin, the bristles of his beard the most erotic sort of tease. Because of that, it takes me a moment to realize he’s gone still. “Damon?” I ask, starting to lift my head again.
His fingers tighten in my hair and his lips start moving again. “Like that, baby.”
“Like wh-what?” I manage as goose bumps rise on my flesh, as my knees wobble, as desire swirls rapidly through my insides.
“You calling me sweetheart.”
My hands clench on his shoulders, surprise sliding through me.
Badass, grumpy, taciturn Damon Connors who doesn’t need anyone else likes being calledsweetheart?
The rush of emotions inside me is so strong that I wonder how I’ll stand it.
But I don’t have time to sit in those feelings—or the panic that hurtles in behind them.
Because he kisses me.
And I’ve never had a kiss like this—lazy and unhurried and yet steadily driving me higher and higher, closer to the edge of insanity.
