Page 92 of Blindside Me
Enough waiting.
I go to him first, lifting to my toes and pressing my lips to his. It’s impulsive and reckless and exactly what I want. He lets me. More than lets me. His lips part in surprise before he answers with a groan and deepens it, his grip tightening at my waist.
His mouth is warm. His hands are cold. I taste mint as I feel the scratch of stubble against my chin. My fingers curl into the back of his neck, still damp from a shower, and the contact grounds me while igniting my insides.
He breaks the kiss, panting against my lips.
“This is dangerous,” I whisper, eyes flicking to the door. Anyone could knock. Callie could return. The last thing Drew needs is campus gossip linking him to his coach’s niece.
“I don’t care,” he says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. “I need this. Need you.”
The words hit me like a punch. This thing started as a mistake, a moment of weakness at a club, when I was drunk and making bad decisions. It was supposed to be once. Then twice.
Now he’s here in my dorm room on a Sunday, looking at me like I’m the thing he came home for.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I’m done pretending I don’t want this, too.
Heat presses between us like a kept secret. Drew’s eyes lock on mine, dark and hungry, and the weight of his want presses down on me like a vice. His voice is low and rough, sending a shiver straight to my core.
“I need you,” he says again, and the words aren’t just words. They’re a demand, a promise, and a prayer.
He’s already moving, stepping into my space, and I don’t back away. Every nerve lights as he crowds me, his body big, solid, and radiating heat. The back of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and I sit down hard, my breath catching in my throat. Drew drops to his knees in front of me, and I watch, transfixed,as his hands go to my sneakers. He peels them off one by one, his touch deliberate, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
“God, I’ve missed you.” His fingers skim the arch of my foot, and I twitch, letting out a soft laugh.
“Sensitive?” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Shut up.” I try to sound tough, but my voice is shaky. He continues to trace my ankles. The featherlight touches awaken every cell inside me. He knows what parts turn me on. He knowsme.
Drew rises, towering over me, and I scoot back on the bed until my head hits the pillow. He follows but then stops.
“What’s this?” The puzzlement on his face has me lifting to my elbows to look at what he’s seeing. It’s when his face softens and reaches for the parchment paper, I know. He picks up the sketch, staring at it in awe. It’s him. Drew from behind, on the ice, his stance perfectly captured because I’d spent hours watching how he held himself. The set of his shoulders. The angle of his knees. The way he leaned slightly right when waiting for a drill to start.
My face heats. “It’s not finished. Just something I worked on during practice.”
“You’re amazing.” His voice is quiet, like he can’t believe someone drew him.
“I had a pretty good model.”
“Can I keep it?”
“Of course. It’s you.”
He sets the paper back on the nightstand, eyes darkening. He crawls over me like a predator circling its prey. “You know what’s hot?”
“What?”
His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he tugs it up and off in one smooth motion. The cool air hits my skin, leaving me exposed in the best fucking way.
“You drawing me.” His lips press against my stomach. Goosebumps erupt across my skin.
“You make a good subject.” My breath comes out in breathless gasps.
His hand slides up my thigh until his fingers brush the edge of my panties. I arch into his touch, my breath hitching. His fingers hook into the elastic, dragging them down my legs, and taking his time like he’s savoring every second.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, and I believe him. Ifeelit. No one’s ever said that to me and made me believe it like he does.
