Page 46 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

When she reaches for me, I bring my mouth to hers, hungry and needy and happy to have more access to her bare skin but wishing we could both just be naked already.

I settle beside her, trailing kisses down her jaw to her neck and collarbone, my fingers tracing the edge of her bra then sliding down her smooth stomach to the waist of her shorts. I want to slide beneath the fabric, but I worry that’s too much too soon. Being shirtless is one thing—arguably she’s still more covered than she would be in a bikini, after all—but hand inside the pants is another step altogether.

Her fingers flutter over my shoulder, arm, and back to shoulder like she’s not quite sure where or how to touch me. When I settle more firmly, rolling her closer to me and hitching her leg over my hip, that seems to help her resolve her indecision. She wraps her arm around me and sighs, her fingers pressing into my back.

This time when I move my hand around her body, I use more pressure, my full palm and not just my fingertips. She groans into my mouth in response and again when I finger the clasp on the back of her bra.

“Yes,” she gasps, gulping air like she’s been underwater, and I can’t help smiling at that reaction. “Please. Take it off.”

With a low growl, I fuss with the hooks, but it’s tricky to do one-handed, and eventually she gets impatient, sits up, reaches behind her, and does it herself.

Grinning, I sit up, tugging the straps down her arms. “I like it when you’re impatient to take your clothes off.”

She blushes at my statement, but shakes her hair out of her face and meets my eyes. “I like it when you touch me.”

“Me too,” I murmur, pulling her close again to do just that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Anna

It feels daring, almost dangerous, to say things like, “I like it when you touch me,” to Troy. Like I’m courting disaster. But each time I tell him what I like, what I want, he gives me more of that. And where’s the disaster in that?

It must be only in my head that asking for what I want is dangerous. I’m sure I could suss out why if I thought about it, but now is not the time for that kind of introspection. Pushing aside those misgivings, I lean into the pleasure that Troy’s so freely offering.

He likes it when I touch him too. Because when I quit acting like I don’t know how to touch him and just do what I want, he reacts in delicious ways—groaning, moaning, sucking in air, and murmuring, “That feels good.” It’s like my instincts aren’t faulty after all. Like if I just give myself permission to want and to act on that, it actually does work out well. Or it can, anyway. Like now.

He has a fine layer of soft dark hair over his pecs, and I run my fingers through it, enjoying the firm muscle beneath, then up and over his shoulder as he peppers kisses down my collarbone, his destination clear.

When he gets to the top of my breast, he pauses and meets my eyes. “Is this okay?” he asks, his breath making my nipple pull into an even tighter peak as he waits for my answer.

Biting my lip, I nod.

Then his mouth is on my nipple, his tongue working as he sucks, and, “Oh my god,” I hiss, squirming.

He makes an encouraging sound in his throat, his hand now moving down my body, gripping my thigh, and dragging his fingers up, up, up, the fabric of my shorts riding up with them. His fingertips tease along the crease where my thigh meets my torso, just along the edge of my panties.

At my panted, “Yes. Please. Touch me,” he moves my panties out of the way, his fingers parting me, skating lightly over me. I spread my legs, feeling wanton and hedonistic, desperate for more.

God, no one has ever made me feel so much with so little effort. With Jared?—

But I cut that thought off savagely. Jared doesn’t hold a candle to Troy. That’s all the comparison needed at this point. And that man has ruined enough of my life. I’m not going to let even the memory of him—and his clumsy attempts at foreplay—ruin the hottest moment of my life.

When Troy removes his hand, I groan my disappointment, and he lifts his head, smiling sweetly. “I got you, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” Then he moves back up, kissing my mouth, his tongue seeking mine, and I give it to him, surging up against him, needing as much as he’ll give me.

His hand, that talented, wonderful thing, rests on my stomach. Then I feel him tugging at the ties at the waist of my shorts before sliding his hand inside. Instead of going up from the leg, he’s going down from the top, rubbing me over my panties before tugging them to the side again, exposing me to his talented fingers.

He dips a finger inside me, just a little, then rubs up over my clit. He draws tiny circles, varying the speed and pressure, like he’s experimenting. When he finds a spot that feels good, I moan—since my mouth is otherwise occupied and I can’t speak—hopefully communicating that I like what he’s doing.

He stays there for a bit, but not long enough, instead dipping a finger inside me again. This time he moves farther, going deeper, rubbing me from the inside, the heel of his palm grinding on my clit, and it feels so good. Withdrawing slightly, a second finger joins the first, and the stretch is exquisite, enough to feel full, not so much that it’s painful, and I moan again.

Ending the kiss, he props himself up on one arm, looking down at me. His eyes flicker between my lips and chest and back up to meet my gaze once more, a look of concentration on his face as he fingers me.

Feeling oddly exposed and like I need to do something, I fumble for him with the arm that’s between us. The angle is awkward, but I make it work, rubbing him through his shorts.

His eyes fall closed, his jaw clenching, and his face like this is a thing of beauty. I like his smiles and his normal easygoing expressions, but this intensity and the fact that I’m bringing him pleasure is ridiculously sexy.

“Oh, that’s good,” he whispers, his hips thrusting into my hand, his attention never faltering, though he changes what he’s doing again, switching back to rubbing my clit.

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