Page 16 of Play Maker

I give her exactly that.

Her mouth tastes like grapes—sweet grapes. Her lips are softer than I expected, but her kiss isn’t. She clings to me like she’s trying to stay upright while the world spins, and I want her to fall under me.

My hand finds her waist, anchoring her, the other tangled in her hair. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb when it brushes her jaw, and I like it … a lot.

She smells like something calming—lavender and sweet like vanilla, mixed with a faint smoky sweetness from her fire and the candle burning in the corner. And underneath it all? Her. Skin. Heat.Want.

I press my mouth to the side of her throat, not biting, not yet, just letting her feel it—the scrape of stubble, the heat of breath, the weight of being wanted like this.

She lets out the tiniest sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, making my balls draw up.

“Shit,” I murmur into her neck, because that sound—thatsound—is going to live in my damn bones, my spine.

She arches under me when my hand slides down, finds the curve of her hip. Everything we’re doing is still clothed, but there’s nothing—not one damn thing—saying it’s gonna stay that way.

Her legs shift against mine, restless. Her hands pull at the hem of my shirt like she’s trying to find something.

Never kissed that way, and by her moans, I know she hasn’t either. They’re quiet but wrecked. I feel her pulse jump when I mouth along her collarbone. Her skin’s hot through the sweater, her body straining toward mine like it knows where this is going before her mind catches up.

I kiss up her neck, slow and possessive, until I find her ear. Then I whisper it low, commanding, no room for confusion, “We need more room.”

She shivers.

I lean back just enough to look her in the eyes, my grip still tight on her hips. “Less clothes.”

She breathes in a quick, sharp breath.

“Take me to your bed, Lo.”

She doesn’t say a word, just rises from the couch with this quiet sort of purpose, her fingers grazing mine like beckoning me to follow, and I do without hesitation.

The stairs curve up the inside of the silo, tight and narrow, the wood warm beneath our feet from the fire still humming below. I watch the sway of her hips, the hem of that too-big sweater skimming the backs of her thighs. My jaw clenches, and my hands ache to touch her everywhere at once.

There’s no sound but that music coming from somewhere, 90s, but I can’t hear it well enough to know the song above the creak of the steps, the soft rustle of fabric, our breathing—hers shallow, mine sharp.

She glances back once near the top. Her eyes catch the soft golden glow waiting above, and in that light, she looks at me as if she’s daring me again. Game on.

Her room is full of … things, but it doesn’t feel cramped.

It feels …hers.

The ceiling slants in a half-moon curve with exposed beams and a little window overlooking the snowy fields in the distance. Strings of fairy lights twist around the railing and over her bed like she lit the stars herself. There’s a stack of books on the floor, a half-finished glass of water on the nightstand, and a flannel blanket tossed across the end of the mattress like she never expected company.

The sheets are mismatched. One’s faded floral, the other a soft, washed-out navy. Lived-in. Unapologetic. Like her.

She steps closer to me, her breath feathering against my jaw as I pause in the center of her room, knowing I should go, but also fully aware I won’t.

Her hands hover at the hem of her sweater, fingers curling into the fabric like she’s not sure whether to let it go or hold it together.

I close the distance between us in two slow steps.

“You still want me?” I murmur, voice rough at the edges.

She nods, even as her breath catches.

I reach out, slide my hand beneath the bottom of the sweater, and find her waist, soft, heated skin against my palm.

“You can stop me,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.

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