Page 97 of Offside Angle

I freeze for a second, staring down at him. The power is back in my hands now, and somehow that feels almost as overwhelming as not having it. Santi’s hands rest lightly on my thighs.

I swallow hard and lean down, bracing my hands on either side of his head. “You sure?” I ask, even though he’s already given me the choice.

Santi’s smile is soft. “I’m sure, cariño. Take whatever you need.”

I look at him for another long second then I lean down and kiss him.

I unbutton Santi’s shirt with slightly unsteady fingers. He helps me, lifting his arms so I can slide the fabric off his shoulders and toss it aside.

My hands flatten against his chest and the first thing that hits me is how different it is. There’s no softness where I’m used to finding it. Just firm muscle under warm skin, the hard planes of his pecs, the faint ridges of his abs when my fingers drag lower. I’ve seen naked men my entire life — locker rooms, showers, post-game chaos — but I’ve never touched one like this. And suddenly I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do with my hands.

Santi must feel the way I freeze because his voice comes soft and steady. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “Just explore. There’s no wrong way.”

I keep going, dragging my palms over his chest, feeling the way his muscles shift under my touch. It’s strange and overwhelming and hotter than I expected. My brain keeps lagging, stuck on the fact that this is a man’s body under my hands and that I like the way it feels.

“You can use your mouth if you want,” he says gently. “Or just your hands. Whatever feels right.”

I lean down and press my mouth to the center of his chest. Santi’s breath hitches just a little, and the sound goes straight through me.

I map the lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the places that make his breath catch when I press harder or softer. Every time he tells me something works, something low and warm settles in my stomach.

Then Santi’s voice drifts up again. “A little lower, cariño. Use your teeth.”

My eyes narrow as I look down at him, something defensive rising up. “I’m the one on top,” I say, almost challenging.

Santi’s mouth curves into that slow, knowing little smile that always gets under my skin. “And still waiting for me to tell you what to do.”

I stare at him, breathing a little harder, caught between wanting to push back and wanting him to keep talking.

I shake off the tension and start kissing down Santi’s body again. This time I let myself get lost in it. The sounds he makes go straight to my head. Every time he arches into my mouth or lets out one of those quiet little praises, something warm and proud settles in me. I like making him sound like that. I like the way his fingers tighten in my hair when I get it right.

I keep going lower, following the lines of muscle, tasting the salt on his skin, until I reach the waistband of his jeans, and every bit of borrowed confidence drains out of me. My hands stop. My mouth stops. Everything just… stops.

Because from here, this is seriously beyond me.

I’ve never done this. Not with a man. Not even close. My brain starts spinning hard and fast — You’re going to fuck this up. You’re not going to know what to do. You’re not equipped for this. You’re going to disappoint him. He’s been so patient and you’re going to ruin it because you have no idea how to satisfy him like this.

Santi notices immediately.

His fingers slide into my hair, gentle and grounding, until I finally look up at him. The second our eyes meet, the panic hits full force. I let my head drop forward, forehead pressing against the warm skin of his stomach, and a rough groan escapes me.

“I’m sorry…”

Santi’s hand keeps moving slowly through my hair. “For what?” he asks softly.

“For not being ready,” I mutter against his skin, frustration rising in my throat. “I… don’t know what to do… I…”

I can’t even finish the sentence. The words tangle up and die. All I can feel is the heat of his body under me, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and the crushing certainty that I’m going to mess this up somehow.

“Then don’t,” Santi says simply.

I frown, lifting my head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“Don’t do anything you’re not ready for,” he clarifies.

The words should help. Instead they make the frustration spike harder. I want to be ready. I want to do this. I want to keep going, to touch him the way he’s been touching me, to figure it out. But I’m also scared shitless that I’ll mess it up, that I’ll freeze again, that I’ll disappoint him after everything he’s already given me.

Santi watches the conflict play out on my face and reaches up, brushing his thumb slowly along my jaw.