“I uh—” he huffs, “I can’t get out of it.”
“Sorry, what?” I laugh.
“It’s not funny.” He clears his throat, standing up tall, and stretches the collar of the jersey with both hands. “It’s stuck.”
I sit up on the bed on my elbows and watch him struggle with the impossibly tight fabric of the rugby jersey. “That’s unfortunate.” I stifle the laughter at the base of my throat.
“Laugh it up, Hellcat,” he says, but there’s no real anger in his voice.
“You could always just live in it,” I tease him, hooking my fingers into the front of his jeans to pull him back between my legs as he continues to stretch out the collar with two hands. “Become, ‘Mr. Rhea Drake,super fan.’”I laugh.
“Mmm,” he grins slightly, “you’d love that.” He yanks at the collar again, and every muscle in his body tightens.
“It would be hilarious for a little while,” I say, and push a hand beneath the fabric against his stomach, “but I’m kind of attached to what’s underneath it.”
He lets out a low chuckle and freezes as my hand moves up his abs. “Yeah?” He glances down at me for a split second before going back to stretch out the collar with a new urgency.
“Yeah,” I confirm and pop the button on his jeans, helping him out of them as he struggles with the tight fabric.
“Hey,” he mutters under his breath as my hands start wandering. “Not helping with the jersey situation here.” His voice comes out breathless. “Stop distracting me.”
“Get it off, Brighton,” I demand, and watch his body harden. It’s like everything shifts in the bedroom, his enjoyment of following orders takes over, and he thrives under the smallest of them. His breath hitches at the command, immediately responding to the authority.
When he pulls at the jersey this time, it’s with a renewed force in an effort to obey the request. “Yes, Ma’am,” he clips, and I hear the fabric tear as my hand dips into the front of his boxers.
Brighton tears the jersey down the front with a heavy grunt as my hand finds his shaft. “Good boy,” I whisper, staring up at him.
It’s new, but his eyes flutter closed briefly at the praise, a soft whimper escaping his lips. The fabric, once restrictive, now falls open completely, revealing his bare chest that rises and falls rapidly with each breath. His hips push forward slightly, seeking more contact with my hand, and I smile with every tiny reaction.
“Feel better?” I ask, leaning forward and kissing his hip as my hand wraps around him. I lick my tongue up his stomach just to feel his body shudder from the contact. His hand tightens as I kiss his skin, rock hard in my palm. The possessive touches and soft commands are slowly undoing him, and we haven’t even gotten anywhere.
“Mhm,” he hums, nodding slightly, but his eyes never leave me.
“What else do you need?” I ask.
His breath catches at the questions. His eyes fluttered closed at the small touches before opening again, filled with need and desperation. “Don’t stop touching me,” he admits quietly, his fingers tightening. “And talk to me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask, my thumb rubs over his tip, and I use the other hand to push away the boxers from his hips as he shucks out of the ruined jersey and tosses it aside. There’s something about needy, pleading Brighton that does things to my nervous system. I know what he wants, but Iliketo hear him say it.
“Like you’re in charge.” He swallows hard as my thumb circles him again. His boxers slide to the floor, leaving him completely naked and hard. “As if you own me,” he adds softly, not breaking eye contact. His hips buck into my touch without permission. “Please,” he whispers. “Take what you want.”
“I don’t know,” I smile lazily, “I’m pretty sore from the game. Do you think you could be gentle with me tonight?” I ask in a soft tone, watching him through my lashes as he inhales shakily.
Those blue eyes widen, and he nods, his hand immediately moving to frame my face gently. “Of course I can be gentle, Hellcat,” he promises softly, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “I’ll be so careful,” he whispers, leaning down to place soft kisses along my jaw.
“I’m going to miss this,” I huff, and rub my fingers in the stupid mustache that covers his top lip.
“Make your peace with it,” his voice is stern. There’s no way I'll convince him to keep it at this rate.
“Oh, I will,” I giggle.
We move back across the bed, and Brighton continues his onslaught of tender kisses and even softer touches. His mouth moves down my neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin. His fingers brush over my collarbone, down between my breasts, and along my ribs. He’s so gentle it’s almost torture, his touch so feathered and his gaze so hot.
Just make sure that’s all you do.
Fuck.I laugh gently, the sound vibrating from me.
“Brighton,” I wait until he’s looking at me again, “I love you,” I say to him. I probably shouldn’t—it’s not the time, but there’s something in him that begs for the words. That lends to a comfort that makes them mean more than anything.
