Page 55 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

“I love your hands on me,” he whispers, sounding almost tortured.

I hum, pleased. “I love your hands on me, too.”

At that, he slides his hands under my knees, spreading my legs more and jerking me even harder against him. My skirt rides up, splitting apart so high it’s almost indecent.

Hell, it is indecent—the way he’s grinding against me, the thin fabric of my panties the only barrier between me and the outside world.

I clutch his arms, my fingers digging into his biceps, and he smiles down at me, but there’s nothing gentle about this smile now. It’s all wicked pleasure as he grinds into me. “How about that? Do you like that?”

“God, yes,” I breathe. “More.”

“Fuuuck.” God, the sound of that growl coming from him is almost enough to undo me right here. He kisses me, first my mouth, then my cheek, my jaw, the spot beneath my ear. I tilt my head, letting him have access to whatever he wants. He tugs at the neck of my shirt, exposing as much skin as he can, his lips and teeth and tongue mapping their way over whatever he can reach.

“I want you so bad,” he mumbles. “I want to taste you. Can I taste you?”

I’m nodding eagerly. “Yes, yes, yes. Me too. I want you too. Please.”

But he’s lowering, his body moving out of my reach, and at first I’m confused, but then he tosses my skirt up and out of his way, his hands bracing my thighs, pushing them open and pressing his face to my center, his mouth hot as he kisses the stretchy, silky fabric covering me.

His eyes meet mine when he pulls back, one finger tracing the edge of my panties where it barely covers my mound. Then he tugs it aside, his gaze shifting to what he’s uncovered.

Meeting my eyes again, he leans in and licks me slowly.

“Jesus,” I gasp, the contact shocking despite expecting it. His tongue wet and warm and soft and firm all at once.

Grinning at my reaction, he does it again, and this time my hips buck. I can’t help it. His touch is electric.

His smile pulls wider, and he finally drops his gaze as he sets to work in earnest. When he said he wanted to taste me, I originally just thought he meant my skin. But this … sweet baby Jesus in the manger, he knows what he’s doing with his tongue.

I try to lean back, but my head bumps into the cabinet. I leave it there, though, bracing myself with one hand behind me, the other searching for purchase somewhere as he works his magic with his tongue, moving between the edge of the counter, the cabinet behind me, and my own hair, but nowhere is what I need. The sight of him kneeling between my pale spread thighs framed by the soft fabric of my skirt is so erotic I could nearly combust from the visual alone. But combined with the sensation. Jesus.

“I can’t—oh, god. I—I—I?—”

“I got you,” he murmurs, the brief break so he can speak granting me a momentary reprieve. He reaches up, his fingers finding mine, and I clutch his hand, finally finding the anchor I need.

He pets me with his other fingers, his blue eyes holding mine, then he sets to work again. And for some reason that break made me even more sensitive. My back bows when his tongue finds my clit, and when he sinks a finger inside me …

“Oh fuck. Oh Jesus.” Filthy words fall from my lips, and if I were in my right mind, I’d be shocked at myself.

But I’m not, because Troy is driving me crazy with his lips and tongue and fingers, and I’m about to—“I’m—I’m—I’m coming.”

And I do. Dear god, I do. My legs jerk, straightening, my hips bucking, my whole body convulsing as white lightning electrifies me from the inside out, the detonation centered where his mouth makes contact with me.

He stays with me as I ride out my orgasm, slowing as I come down, easing his fingers from me and petting the inside of my thigh, placing a kiss on the other thigh and sliding my panties back in place, never releasing his hold on my hand.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, slumping on the counter, only his presence in front of me keeping me from sliding to the floor in a boneless heap.

He lets out a self-satisfied chuckle, standing and gathering me into his arms. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, burying his face in my shoulder and pressing a kiss to my neck. “And delicious.”

I’m grateful my face is pressed into his shoulder because it’s flaming at that compliment. “Um, thanks?”

He chuckles again, pulling back and easing me to my feet, my body still pressed against his. Which makes me extremely cognizant of the fact that I’m the only one who’s currently satisfied.

I slide my hand down to his waist, but hesitate, wanting to touch, but suddenly shy in the aftermath of my own orgasm—which I’m aware is also ridiculous considering where he just had his mouth, but nevertheless, here we are. “Can I … should I …?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he assures me, pressing his lips to the top of my head.

“I want to,” I whisper, my confidence paradoxically returning at his reassurance. “I want you.”

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