When you’re surrounded by sports-minded men whose reading repertoire doesn’t expand beyond The Hockey News or the sports section in the newspaper, it’s hard not to get all starry-eyed about a guy who reads books without pictures.
One second he’s talking, the next my face is glued to his. His glass clinks on the table, and then his hands are on me, under my shirt, gripping my waist and burning against my already heated skin.
“I was really hoping for some more mouth fucking,” Alex says against my lips.
I giggle, and then moan. Oh hell, do I moan. It’s been a while since I’ve been touched by a member of the opposite sex. By a while, I mean it’s been the drought of the ages for the past six months. I’m going to explode out of my skin from the contact.
I skim his jaw with my fingers and thread them into his hair. It’s soft, reminding me of those shampoo commercials, where attractive men gush about their super awesome hair.
I press closer, but it’s not enough, so I straddle his lap. This is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. His probable hockey-whore status ceases to matter as I settle over the straining bulge in his pants.
Alex’s fingertips glide back and forth under the waistband, which rides precariously low. My focus lies on the feel of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his mouth on mine.
He breaks the kiss, and his lips travel along my jaw, warm and wet on my skin. “Is this okay?” he asks, inching his hands into the back of my pants.
“Uh-huh.”
He grabs the swell of my ass, squeezing gently. “And this?”
I mmm rather than use words on the not-so-off chance I might say something to ruin the moment. His full bottom lip begs for attention, so I give it a nibble and a suck. We kiss for a long while, grinding all up on each other, his hands in my pants, my fingers in his hair.
He pulls my body closer, shifting his hips at the same time. “What about this?”
And there it is—the friction I’ve been looking for. It feels so good. So much better than my own fingers because it’s a big damn dick and all I have to do is shift against it. “Fuck me.” The words come out on a breathy-groan.
I freeze. I’m so pucked. There’d better be a support group for hockey hookers.
I’m going to need it after tonight.
VIOLET
Alex releases his grip on my ass and regards me with soft, warm eyes. “I was serious when I said I don’t have any expectations, okay?” Despite his relaxed posture and his reassurance, his voice is raspy—distilled sex over crushed ice.
Is this what he says to all the puck bunnies? If it is, I understand why it works. “Okay.”
I decide if we stay here on the sofa, there’s less risk of me getting completely naked. The notion is bereft of logic. The first time I had sex was on a couch, so the prospect that this is less dangerous than say, oh, a very large, comfortable bed, is ludicrous. I’m going with it anyway.
Alex kneads my ass while I grind on him shamelessly. At the same time, I’ve got a solid grip on his hair so I can keep his mouth locked to mine. He proves to be incredibly helpful with the whole hips shifting business. This is awesome, as far as making out goes.
The contrast of rough stubble and the softness of his lips against my throat send a delicious shiver down my spine.
I release his hair to explore the rest of his cut body. Muscles tense and jump under my touch. The top button of his dress shirt is undone and his tie hangs loose around his neck. Now seems as good a time as any to help him get more comfortable. I mean, I’m in my jammies and here he is, still mostly in a suit.
Unbuttoning involves multitasking, but I’m more than capable of getting his shirt undone while he kisses my neck.
Under the crisp dress shirt is a white tee stretched tight across a solid wall of chest. I’m certain they didn't need to airbrush the milk ad all to shit to achieve his level of hotness.
Excited to find out, I slip my fingers under the hem, mindful this is similar to the unveiling of great art. I’ve never been this up close and personal with someone in such amazing physical condition. I want to revel in the reveal of his godlike body. Below his navel is a smattering of dark hair, a treasure trail leading to something close to gold . . . or diamonds—because he’s damn hard right now.
Washboard abs flex under my fingers. He raises his arms, and I lift the T-shirt over his head, careful of his busted lip and bruised jaw. Not bothering to hide my appreciation, I exhale on a low whistle. Tattoos accentuate each bicep. The left boasts a waving Canadian flag—long live patriotism—and the right has a set of hockey sticks crossed over a puck.
I can feel Alex’s eyes on me as I trace the hockey tattoo with a fingertip.
“You really love hockey, don’t you?”
“Yeah. It’s kinda my thing.” His hands drift up my thighs, arms flexing.
“I bet you could bench press me.”
“There’s a good chance.”
His fingertips breach the hem of my shirt. When my body jerks, he hesitates.
“Should I stop?”
“No, thanks. I’m ticklish.”