Page 50 of Goalie Lessons

I can’t listen to this a second longer. Rather than continue to argue with her, I just widen my stance and stand up from the bed, watching her mouth make an “o” shape, her legs moving to wrap around my waist, bringing her core dangerously close to mine.

I’m so fucking turned on, my cock twitches in protest at the layers of clothing between us. Once I’m standing—easily, I might add—with Astrid around me, one of my hands on her ass and the other on her back, I take two quick strides over to the wall, press her against it, tip her head back, and kiss her.

She gasps against me, and again, I remember her saying,Confidence is sexy.

Surely, this must count as confidence, right? Astrid must think so, because she rocks her hips into mine, drawing a low noise from the bottom of my throat.

I break away, breathing hard, touching my nose to hers. “Was that okay? Are you good?”

“Let’s make a deal,” she says, reaching for the front of my shirt and pulling me closer to her, so her lips brush against mine when she talks. “Only stop if you want to. If I want you to stop, I’ll make it clear.”

“Deal,” I rasp, just before my lips crush onto hers again.

My mind goes silent for once, no thoughts of the kids, no thoughts of anything but the woman in front of me, her touch, the feel of her skin under my fingers. She said my kissing was fine, so I do all the things I love to do—skimming my fingers under the hem of her shirt, along her waist, watching as her eyelids flutter at the touch.

With her legs still wrapped around my waist, I move her to the counter in the bathroom, swiping the toiletries off into the sink. I bury my hands in her hair and pull her closer to me, biting her lip, my body thrumming with the feeling of her tongue against mine, the arch of her chest pressing to mine, her legs tightening in a vice grip around me.

Then, when she breaks to gasp for air, I pick her up again, bringing her to the bed, laying her down, crawling over her and sliding one of my thighs between her legs. When I apply pressure, she lets out a breathy noise, and I catch it in my mouth.

“Does that count?” I rasp, pulling back, brushing some of her hair away from her face.

It takes her a moment to refocus on me, her pupils blown out, her lips kissed raw and pink, swollen. There’s a clock on the bedside table, but it’s turned away from me—how long have we been doing this?

“Does…does what count?” she manages, her voice barely there, like she’s just got done with a concert or a speech. Like all this kissing has taken away her ability to speak.

“This.” I press my thigh against her, a thrill coursing through me when her hands tighten on my shoulders, her eyes fluttering shut. “Does that count as…what did you say?Pleasuringa woman, in any way?”

Astrid is still breathing hard, looking like she can barely hold the thread of the conversation. I pull my thigh away and watch her come back to herself, laughing breathily as she pushes her bangs away from her face.

“Uh, no,” she finally manages, “I don’t think…I don’t think it does.”

“Okay.” My mind is filth and only manages to consider the other options. With one hand braced over her head, I run the other up her side, our eyes locking together as I find her nipple through her T-shirt and pinch it.

“What about that, then?”

Astrid

WhenGraysonpinchesmethrough my shirt, I—honest to God, hand-on-the-Bible—almost have an orgasm right then and there.

I must be an amazing instructor, because the last time I had Grayson in a bed like this, my arousal trended in the opposite direction—starting high and dwindling down when we got to the bed, startled away by his eagerness. The way the kiss turned to him pushing the skirt of my dress up my hips.

I’ve never in my life felt this close to an orgasm withoutsomeone—either myself, or the other person—with their hand on my clit. I’ve always been very particular, needing the right rhythm, the right pressure, the right pace.

But Grayson isn’t really even touching me, just applying a broad pressure with his thigh, and yet I feel like I’m going to fly apart into a million pieces, one second away from it. I once dated a girl who said she could come from nipple play alone, but that has never been me.

Grayson stops, staring down at me, his lips parted, and I realize he’s still waiting for me to answer his question. I told him I would let him know if I wanted him to stop, but I’ve effectively gone mute, so distracted by the endless waves of pleasure through my body that I can barely think until he takes his hand off

“No,” I manage to gasp, when he rolls my nipple between his fingers, his eyes locked to the movement like it’s mesmerizing to watch. “That doesn’t, either.”

“Under the shirt?”

Fuck. I want Grayson O’Connor to do more than reach his hand under my shirt—I want him to peel these jeans off of me, touch me—reallytouch me.

But I’m the one who talked about going slow. I’m the one who told him to wait, who said we’d just be focusing on foreplay and kissing today. And right now, I’m really starting to hate myself for it.

He leans down to kiss me again, his hand still on me over the shirt, because I haven’t answered yet. And so far, he’s been excellent at following instructions. Maybe the problem isn’t actually him—maybe his previous girlfriends just haven’t given him enough direction. MaybeIshould have just told him what I wanted that night at the wedding, and things might have turned out differently for us.

“Only if it’s reciprocal,” I finally get out in response to his question.

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