His hands moved again, sliding higher beneath the edge of the jersey, thumbs pressing into the sensitive place where thigh met hip. My whole body tightened.
“Isa,” he said.
Not Texas.
My name.
I was in serious trouble.
His mouth touched the back of my neck.
Soft at first.
So soft it almost made me angry.
I had braced for Drew the menace, Drew the bonfire kiss, Drew the man who could turn public performance into a full-body event. I had not braced for this. For the careful brush of his lips at my nape. For the warmth of his breath. For the way one hand stayed on my hip, grounding me, while the other slid slowly up my side beneath the oversized jersey.
My eyes closed.
His mouth moved down the top of my spine, kissing over the fabric first, then finding the bare skin where the collar had slipped wide. My breath came out unsteady.
“Drew.”
He hummed against me. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
His fingers brushed the back clasp of my bra.
I went still.
He paused. Waiting.
I lifted my head just enough to look back at him over my shoulder. His eyes were dark, locked on mine, body held so carefully above me I could see the restraint in every line.
I whispered, “Don’t you dare stop.”
Something flashed across his face. He leaned down and kissed me between my shoulder blades. The clasp snapped open with one practiced flick.
“Of course you’re good at that,” I muttered into the pillow.
“Athletic hands,” he said against my skin, and I could hear the smile.
His hand slid beneath the loose jersey, over my ribs, then higher. At the same time he shifted his weight, pressing the thick, hard ridge of his cock directly against my ass through his sweats and my thin shorts. The heat of him burned. I groaned—low, helpless, involuntary.
He made a rough sound in return.
Then his rough, football-calloused palm found my bare breast, cupping it fully from underneath, fingers closing aroundsensitive flesh. His thumb and forefinger pinched my nipple, then rolled it slowly, deliberately. The dual sensation—his thick cock grinding lightly against my ass while those calloused fingers tormented my nipple—had me hot and slick in seconds. I was dripping, clenching, the thin barrier of my shorts doing nothing to hide how wet I was getting.
I pushed back against him without thinking, another broken sound tearing out of me.
“Fuck, Isa,” he rasped against my neck, voice strained.
His hand left my breast to grip my hip, holding me still like he was one second from losing control. Then he carefully, carefully turned me onto my back, sliding pillows under my injured leg, protecting it the whole time. The second I was facing him I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down.
His mouth met mine open and hot.
No pretending now. No audience. No strategic kiss to prove a point. This was messy. Hungry. Real enough to hurt. He kissed like he argued—full force, no half measures, all mouth and heat and a low sound in his throat that made me clutch at his shoulders. I tasted peppermint again, softer now under the heat of him.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead against mine, eyes dark and searching.
