Everyone howls and so does Knox. His grin is huge as he dances off beat and tries to grind low as everyone hoots for him to do more. His performance is short, no more than thirty seconds or so, but it’s long enough to crack my no-athlete barrier and melt my ovaries.
He ends by falling into the arms of his other defensive linemen, who throw him back and he careens carelessly right to me. I hold out my hands to brace him, only he stops short, expertly back in control of his body once more. The DJ segues into Jason Derulo’s “Want to Want Me” and Masters takes advantage of the switch to swing me into his arms, his hips moving in rhythm to the music with much better timing than when he tried to hip flex in the middle of the circle.
“Liked that, did you?” He taps the apple of my cheek that hurts from smiling.
“Maybe.” We both know the answer is yes.
“I can make a fool of myself regularly if it makes you smile like this.” He grins again and I can’t stop my own lips from curling upward. He’s ridiculously irresistible.
Masters takes this as an invitation to slide one of his big hands around my waist, to rest at the waistband of my jean skirt. His long fingers rest at the top of my ass and he slips his other hand under my hair to palm the back of my head, as if he owns me. Masters tugs my hair back and his green eyes—almost black in the dark light of the dance floor—bore into mine as Derulo sings about needing to be with his woman, about not being able to wait, and getting high by just the thought of her.
Again, there’s something in Masters’ face—a hunger or desire or need—that scares me. I want to run away from this, but he’s fastened me as securely against him as a sailor would lash himself to a mast.
Derulo’s falsetto notes seem incongruous against the big, hard body pressed against me and his tones fade away replaced by an even slower, sultrier song. This time it’s Ellie Goulding begging to be loved the right way. Masters might be a virgin, but his erection feels huge against my stomach. Rock hard doesn’t begin to describe it. Whatever he has in his shorts crushes rocks, decimates them, and turns them into dust. Kind of like all my good intentions.
I can feel them dissolving in the slow grind of our hips. This is a prelude to something, something horizontal and sweaty. I inch back, which is hard to do with a hand at your ass and the other in your hair.
“I’m not having sex with you. Your virgin line won’t work on me.” I wish I had more conviction in my voice.
“I know,” he murmurs into my hair and pulls me back until again there’s no space between us.
My God. Every denial that comes out of his mouth makes me want to prove him wrong. He presses his face into my hair and I feel his chest move against mine as he inhales deeply. Vainly, I’m happy I showered with my mango-scented shampoo before I came out, even though I swear I had no plans to have Masters sniff me.
His unattainable status works overtime on me. I’ve become the girl I described to Jack. The one who wants to show Masters how amazing sex is.
“Masters, this won’t go anywhere.”
He draws back slightly and frowns. “Is that how you think of me? As Masters? I’m not your teammate.”
“I’m not anything to you.”
The side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what you think.” His arms go around me again. He leans down. “You're too beautiful for words.”
I stumble but his arms hold me upright. I wish I had some resistance left, but my willpower seems to have abandoned me.
He massages my scalp as he uses a muscled thigh to part my legs. I lean into him, drunk off the beat that pulses from the soles of my feet up into my belly. His hands tighten against me, pressing my soft flesh into his harder frame. I feel everything—the jut of his hard-on against my stomach, the ridged abdomen barely disguised by his tight T-shirt, the bands of steel that clutch me close. Against my better judgment, I move against him and his thigh slips farther between my legs. The denim of my skirt rides up and the worn cotton of his shorts rubs against the newly exposed skin.
His big hand drops from my ass the tops of my legs and a tremor unmoors me.
“What are you doing to me?” I croak.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my temple in a feather-light caress. “We’re just dancing.”
Only we’re not just dancing. We’re pressed as close as two people can get. His leg is so far between mine that I don’t think my feet touch the floor anymore.
“Masters, we can’t…We shouldn’t…” I can’t even finish my sentences because what are we doing? I don’t even know anymore.