Page 42 of Slapshot Bride

But I have.

God, I have.

A moan slips free and he swallows it.

His hand cups my jaw, and the one on the back of my neck slides down to the nape, holding me in place. It’s firm, but I move closer, wanting more.

My eyes fall closed.

For one perfect moment, there is nothing except Easton.

The way he looks at me like he actually sees me. The way he stepped between me and the cameras in the parking lot without thinking twice. His knuckles brushing my back in the changing room. Every tiny kindness he’s given me without ever asking for anything in return.

And now this. His mouth devouring mine.

I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thud of his heart beneath my palms, before wrapping my arms around his neck to pull him down closer.

A low, primal sound rumbles deep in his chest. The restraint he was holding onto snaps, and the kiss turns hungrier, dirtier.

His hand shifts from my jaw, gripping my hip with a sudden, bruising intensity that drags my body flush against his. I can feel every hard line of him, the sheer heat radiating through his clothes, pressing against the sudden ache blossoming between my thighs.

My fingers curl tight into the fabric at his shoulders as he angles my face, his mouth parting mine with relentless pressure.

Warmth floods through me so fast my head spins, settling low in my stomach like a slow-burning fire.

Easton’s tongue glides over the seam of my lips, coaxing them open, and as he tastes me, sweeping deep and slow, nothing has ever felt so perfect.

He groans, a sound of pure satisfaction, his grip tightening on my hip. His thumb hitches the hem of my shirt up, bare skin meeting his warm, calloused palm.

The sensation sends a sharp shock of lightning straight to my core. His mouth leaves mine for a fleeting second to trail desperate, scorching kisses down the curve of my jaw, nipping lightly at the sensitive pulse point at my throat.

“Easton...” I gasp, tipping my head back without thinking.

He mutters a dark oath against my skin, his hips shifting forward as he pulls me flush against him, and there’s no mistaking just how much he wants me.

This is wrong.

I know it is.

I ran away from another man three days ago.

But Easton’s mouth moves over mine again, and nothing about this feels wrong.

His hand slides higher up my ribs, his thumb brushing the soft underside of my breast through the thin lace of my bra, making my breath hitch sharply.

My body suddenly freezes.

His hands fall away as I pull back, lips parted, eyes wide, my fingers still fisted in his shirt.

“Riley…”

“Oh my God.” I jump away.

“Hey…”

I’m already on my feet. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t…”

I step away, not looking at him. I can’t. My feet carry faster than ever to the stairs, and I hear him say my name once, gently, behind me.