“Ambrosia…” he starts, and I take a step forward to comfort him. I cup his face how he did mine before he kissed me, and he drops his forehead to mine. I stroke him slowly, and his breathing is erratic and so sexy.
“Let me take care of you,” I whisper, and he places his hand on my hip, holding me tightly, but he doesn’t let me stroke him.
“I need you to know something.”
Warning bells go off in my head. Shit, does he have an STI? Damn it, why… I knew this was too good to be true.
I swallow hard, my eyes moving back and forth between his. “Yeah?”
“You’re going to laugh.”
I furrow my brows. “I’m the furthest from laughing right now. More like I’m about to combust if you don’t get a condom on and get inside me.”
He lets out a small sound of distress, his fingers biting into my wrist. “Ambrosia.”
“What?”
He looks so anxious, and I don’t understand why. This is the very first time I’ve ever seen him not fully confident in himself. The man owns the field, the ice—hell, any place he goes. He demands respect, attention, and he thrives on it. It makes absolutely no sense to me since this right here is his jam. Sex, fornicating, ruining women for all men, yet Dawson is trembling.
And not in the way I want him to.
With only three whispered words, I figure out why.
“I’m a virgin.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dawson
You know that moment when an athlete gets hurt?
I’ve seen some pretty gruesome hits, on the ice and the field, and everyone’s reactions are always the same.
There is the “Oh!”
And then the silence.
The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl and your heart pound in your chest from the unknown.
I feel how every single spectator does in that instant as I gaze down into Ambrosia’s shocked eyes. Her face is flushed, her lips swollen, and she has me on the edge, ready to fall right into her plush body. I’m truly freaked out by what will come out of her mouth once my truth processes in her gorgeous brain. She looks absolutely stunning, as always, and I shouldn’t be concerned with telling her this. I’ve said time and time again that my past doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t.
But I need her to know. To realize how fucking important she is to me.
Her hand is still firmly around my cock, and I swear I’ve never been this hard in my life. I’m leaking for this girl, and that has never happened.
She’s just perfect.
Her hair is falling out of her bun from our tumbling on the couch and floor. Her top is barely containing her ample breasts, and her skirt is stuck around her waist, showing her glistening center and release-covered, thick thighs. A sweet pink center I devoured and can still taste on my lips and thighs that have little bite marks from me.
Yeah, she totally looks like mine.
I want her all over again.
Forever.
But I want to be honest.
