“Mmm,” I moan.
Every kiss with Jasper is better than the last. It might be my favorite thing about being with him. The sex is crazy good, but kissing him? There’s something about a great kiss—a man who knows what he’s doing—that is just as good.
And Jasper?
He knows what he’s doing. The way his hands explore my body. Alternating pressure. Nibbling on my bottom lip.
I want more.
“Jasper,” I purr.
“Not yet,” he whispers against my swollen lips. “Later.”
I groan. “What is better than kissing and sex?”
He steps back, adjusting his pants. “Considering I can’t really take you out, we have to have ‘real’ dates.”
“Okay?” I question.
Jasper grabs the bag from the counter and two beers from the fridge. He swings the bag over his shoulder and gives Dolly a scratch behind the ears as he heads out to the patio.
“C’mon.”
The bag spills open as he drops it onto the grass in my fenced-in yard.
“Bowling pins and a football? What in the world?”
I take the proffered beer as he moves away from me.
“It’s called fowling. Marcus was saying his girls love it, and I thought it might be something fun for us to do. You know, since we can’t actually go bowling on a first date.”
This man remembers everything. If I once told him my favorite ice cream flavor was pistachio, he’d remember. If I said I loved the Black Diamonds more than the Knights, he’d accept it. This is just the kind of man Jasper is.
How did I get so lucky to match with someone like him?
“How exactly do we play?” I ask, stepping onto the grass as he sets up ten pins.
“Well, normally we’d each have our own set of pins, but the point is you get two throws to knock all the pins down.”
“So bowling with a football,” I clarify.
“Exactly.”
“I feel like you’re going to win,” I say, eyeing him up and down.
He looks sexy as hell in a black sweater, light jeans, and loafers. His hair is slicked back—he dressed up for the event tonight at Chloe’s store. I love that he puts in an effort for his teammates and their partners.
It shows what kind of person Jasper is. That I made the right choice.
“Why’s that?” he asks, walking toward me and pulling me in close.
“You’re an athlete and good at these kinds of things.”
“I play hockey, Quinn. Not football.”
“Still doesn’t mean you don’t have good arm strength.”
He kisses me again, swirling all my brain cells together so I can’t think. “You’ve never complained about it before.”
