Page 61 of Goalie Lessons

An awkward beat passes as we stay right where we are—Astrid sitting on the desk, me standing between her legs, then she lets out a shaky breath and says, “Well. We should probably move to the bed. The desk might be kind of tricky.”

I glance impulsively down at the waistband of her jeans, swallowing, thinking about what it would be like to slide my hand into her pants right here, to feel her against me, have her legs clamped around my hips.

But she’s right—if I struggled with this before, the desk isn’t going to be the best set-up for me.

We move over to the bed, and I flip off the lights, feeling they’re too harsh, too bright. With them dimmed and turned off, the room turns soft, glowing. Astrid moves to one side of the bed and I go to the other, feeling strangely like we’re newlyweds in some old movie, getting ready to make love for the first time.

Letting out a quick breath, Astrid reaches for her pants, unbuttoning them and making quick work of the zipper. I should do something—Take off my own pants?—but the only thing I can manage is staring at her, eyes caught on her every movement as she unfastens the pants and peels them down her legs, pulling them off and tossing them to the floor.

Then she climbs into the bed, pulling up the cover and sliding beneath it. I decide to leave my sweats on and climb in with her, turning and facing her on the pillow. It’s oddly intimate, like we’re kids having a sleepover.

“Okay,” she says, closing her eyes, like she’s still trying to convince herself that this is a good idea. I feel the urge to tell her that she doesn’t have to go through with this, but I remember what she told me last time—if she doesn’t like it, she’ll tell me.

I stare at Astrid, waiting for her to go on. I feel every shift of the sheets, hear every rustle of the blanket around me, skin ultra-sensitive, sensing every single touch, every potential point where we might connect.

Without thinking, and before she can say whatever comes next, I reach out and wrap my fingers loosely around her wrist, just under her sweater, wanting that connection. In the bed but not touching, we feel like two drifting bodies, untethered.

The moment my skin hits hers, her eyes fly open, and she sucks in a breath that I feel fills her lungs, inflating her chest. We stay like that, staring at one another, nothing but the sound of our shallow breaths and the AC unit in the background as I slowly slide the tips of my fingers along her hand, down her fingers.

When I leave her hand and find her stomach where her sweater rides up, she keeps her eyes on me, wide and shining in the low light. I trail my fingers along her navel, stopping to press the pads of my thumbs against each of her hipbones, liking the way they feel like an anchor.

I think of the jack points under a car, the most secure place to lift it up in the air. That’s what her hips feel like to me. Solid, secure.

My mind goes blank as I let my hands wander, palm flattening over her stomach, so I feel once again, the breath she draws in at the touch. She’s nothing but smooth skin and warmth, and I drink her in inch by inch, addicted to her sounds and sighs, how she reacts to me.

Was it like this that first night at the estate after the wedding? No—it couldn’t have been. When I think back to it, it’s hard for me to remember much, mind skipping right to the part where she cuddled into my chest. I’d been so in my head I hadn’t thought about taking my time, progressing through each step of the dance with intention.

Did touching her like this even cross my mind that night?

“No,” Astrid laughs breathily, her eyes flying up to meet mine, and I realize I’ve asked the question out loud. “I don’t think you did. I remember you were…eager. And a bit rough.”

“Damn.” I shake my head, wondering how in the world I could be so quick to waste something like this, to brush over the best parts. “What a waste.”

When I slide my hand down to the waistband of her panties, she stutters a breath, pauses, holds my gaze. Slowly, I twist my hand, pushing my fingers just two inches under the band, sliding along her skin, the stubble there.

“It’s been a minute since I shaved,” she says, matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like an apology, so I don’t tell her that it’s okay. There’s nothing in the world I care less about at this exact moment.

Time stretches out, my heart throwing itself violently against my chest as I reach for her, and when I finally part her, slipping one finger into the wet warmth, I have to drop my head against her shoulder for a moment.

My cock is harder than it’s ever been—this is sublime torture. Moving slow, teasing, raising everything by half a degree, wondering when the pot will finally get to boiling.

Astrid gently wraps her fingers around my wrist, slides them down, cupping her smaller hand over mine.

“Okay,” she says, voice choked. “I’m going to show you how I like to be touched.”

Astrid

Always,alwaysIcanrely on my brain.

But right now, it’s short-circuiting. I’m supposed to be teaching Grayson, telling him what to do in this situation, but for some reason, when he touched my wrist, words left me.

It was like he knew exactly what to do, how to slide his fingers along my skin, the right way to tease me, draw it out—andfuck, when he pressed his thumbs against my hips like that? Like he was just barely hanging onto his control?

I’m not sure anything like that has ever happened to me in the bedroom before, the sudden and complete arousal. If he had touched me then and there, I might have come for him within seconds.

But he didn’t. He kept teasing me, time going past in a weird clip—sometimes moving forward, sometimes stuttering to a complete stop. Particularly while I was waiting for him to move his hand again, to touch me in a new place.

Now, with his fingers just there, and my hand cupped over his, I feel like I can taste my heart in my throat, my body relaxing to the point of disorganization, like my organs have given up proper functioning to focus on what Grayson is doing to me.

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