Page 57 of Body Check

He growls his approval against my mouth. This kiss, not unlike the one in that hotel room, isn’t sweet. It’s definitely not subtle. Not when he hooks my left leg around his hip and drags his still-clothed hard-on along the seam of my jeans. Not when his other hand gently pulls at my messy bun, releasing the strands, throwing the elastic band away into the darkness. Not when he fists my now loosened hair, breaks from the kiss, and grits out, “I’ve dreamt of this. Your hair tangled between my fingers. Spread across my pillow. Wrapped around my fist as I fit myself into you from behind.”

His mouth lands on my throat, just like it was only minutes ago.

And just like then, words flee my brain on contact.

Not for him, though.

No, he only winds that spell tighter around me, winding me up with nothing but the softness of his lips on my flesh and the dirty words spilling from his mouth, tightening the need between my legs until I’m rubbing shamelessly against his crotch.

“I’d take you just how you like it,” he mutters shamelessly, fingers twining in my hair, mouth slipping down to the crook of my neck and shoulder, “you bent over the bed, your sweet ass in the air, your hands fisting the sheets as you scream my name.”

Jackson Carter.

Captain of the Boston Blades.

The only man to know exactly where I need to be touched, the precise pressure that I need to tip over the edge.

But I know how to touch him, too, how to make him lose control.

If we’re going down in this downward spiral of ecstasy and bad decisions, I refuse to go alone.

My hands move from his rugged face, the latter half-eclipsed by the shadows of the parking lot, to the waistband of his mesh shorts. I don’t give him any opportunity to steal back control before I’m slipping the material down over his narrow hips to his thick, muscular thighs.

Right under his balls.

“Holls—”

I hear the panic in his voice—the almighty Jackson worrying about having his throne of control usurped—and drop my lifted leg back onto the concrete.

Then I drop to my knees completely.

We’re in clear sight of the practice arena, but the security guards are gone for the night, no other cars around but mine and Jackson’s. The practice rink, unlike TD Garden which sits on the cusp of Boston’s touristy North End, is in the suburb of Waltham, tucked away in a thicket of trees and shrubbery, away from prying eyes and reporters and crazy fans.

Our witnesses are the darkened sky, the twinkling stars, the thin slice of the moon peeking out from behind a cluster of clouds.

And not a one of them utters a single protest as I wrap my hand around my ex-husband’s cock and slip my mouth over the crown.

“Oh,fuck.”

Jackson’s weight shifts forward, and I hear his palms land on the roof of the car as though he’s desperate to find stability.

My fist arcs up his thick length, my mouth dropping simultaneously as I suck him deep and meet my hand in the middle.

“Holly,” he works out, his voice nothing more than a guttural groan above me.

I don’t stop. I don’t slow down, my fist twisting steady and fast as I swallow him again and again. My free hand lifts from his thigh to cup his balls, squeezing, gently tugging the way he’s always loved.

My reward is another string of incomprehensible words: “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Christ, you have to stop. I can’t . . . It feels . . . you feel so—oh,fuck.”

It’s not a fair fight. I know what makes him tick. I know what makes him lose control. But in that space where my insecurities live—where I wonder, constantly—if I know him at all anymore, I still give him my everything and hope it’s enough.

Opening my eyes, I pray for a splice of light across his face when I glance up past his Cornell T-shirt, which makes my heart squeeze with the memories.

Wish granted.

He’s watching me, chest heaving with big, uneven breaths, his hands gripping the smooth curve of the car’s roof. He stares at me like I’m a gift he doesn’t deserve, cheeks hollowing with those uneven breaths of his, bulky arms straining with effort.

I make sure he’s watching as I bob my head and take him deep, to the back of my throat.

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