This was ridiculous.
I was a professional athlete, and I was lying in bed huffing another man’s hair like it was a controlled substance.
And most shocking, at least to me, was that I didn’t care. Fuck everybody else. This was amazing. No, this was better than amazing. This was . . . well . . . I didn’t have a word for that, but it was totally that. Seriously. Like really.
I pressed my lips to the back of his neck right below his hairline where the curls gave way to warm, smooth skin. The kiss was a whisper, light enough that it shouldn’t have disturbed him.
So I did it again.
And again, lower, where his neck met his shoulder.
A slow heat began building in my abdomen, spreading downward with a lazy insistence I couldn’t have ignored even if I’d wanted to. My body was responding to his proximity, to the warmth ofhis skin against mine, and to the intimate reality of waking up wrapped around someone who felt like he belonged there.
I shifted my hips, and the contact sent a pulse through me that made my breath catch. I held still, not wanting to wake him, not ready to break the spell of this quiet moment.
With my free hand—the one still draped over his waist—I began to explore.
It started innocently enough.
My fingers traced lazy patterns on his forearm, following the line of a vein from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. His skin was warm, sleep-soft, the light dusting of hair on his arms barely perceptible beneath my fingertips.
I drifted higher.
Over his bicep, still firm from years of training.
Across the curve of his shoulder.
Down the side of his rib cage, where I could feel each rib beneath a thin layer of muscle.
My hand settled against the bare skin of his stomach.
He was warm.
So warm.
I let my palm rest there for a moment, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. The muscles of his abdomen were relaxed in sleep, soft enough toyield beneath gentle pressure but firm enough to remind me of the athlete he’d been. The trail of hair I’d explored last night led downward from his navel, and I traced it with one finger before losing my nerve and drifting sideways instead.
I followed the curve of his rib cage upward, my touch featherlight, mapping the geography of his body. Every ridge and plane was evidence of who this man was and what he’d built and how he’d lived.
My fingers grazed his chest.
The light dusting of hair there was softer than I’d expected last night, almost downy, and I let my fingertips drift through it the way one might run a hand through tall grass. His pec was solid beneath my palm. He hadn’t let this muscle group slide despite retiring from football. The warmth of his skin against mine made my pulse quicken.
I found his nipple almost by accident.
It was a small, firm point beneath the pad of my index finger.
I paused, curious, then traced a slow circle around it.
That’s when Jacks stirred.
I froze.
He pushed back, forcing our bodies impossibly closer.
My cock, already hard, twitched.
Ifelthis eyes open.
