Page 68 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Good,” I whisper, flicking my tongue over his head again. “I don’t want you to.”
With a broken groan, he comes, spilling hot and messy over my chest and throat, his whole body shaking as he holds my head to him.
I keep him tight between me until he finally collapses back against the desk, spent and gasping. I look up at him, wiped out and undone. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“I’m the last girl you bring in here, understand”
He leans down and holds my eye, saying, “Deal,” and then seals it with one last, blistering kiss.
The next morning,Jefferson insists on making the first stop of the day the campus coffee shop. He orders for both of us without even asking, rattling it off like he’s done it a hundred times.
When the wide-eyed barista, who definitely recognizes me, hands me a caramel oat milk latte, I raise a brow. “You pay attention.”
“I’m observant,” he replies, smug as hell. “I overheard the rant about whole milk with Madison when I stayed over in Atlanta. I wasn’t risking it.”
He looks so annoyingly pleased with himself that I stick my tongue out at him. Which, of course, just makes him lean down and kiss me quickly, right there in line. Too fast for anyone tograb a photo, thank God, but enough that I’m buzzing by the time we leave.
“Madison texted this morning. She said she and the girls are going for brunch.”
She texted other stuff too, like a million questions about my night and how things were with Jefferson. How photos had popped up online, but we looked happy, and the overall reaction was good. “Overall reaction” is code for, my fans are excited for me. My haters? Well, they hate everything.
I told her to stop scrolling and take a break.
Jefferson has big plans for the day and is taking me to the arena to show me the rink. I get it–there’s nothing I love more than showing off the stage right before a concert. It feels like a second home–something you want to share with a person you care about.
And caring about Jefferson Parks seems to be easier and easier to do.
By the time we make it there, I’ve got caffeine warming my veins. It’s just him and me. No crowd. No flashing cameras. Just quiet ice.
Jefferson pulls two pairs of skates out of his bag with ease, tossing me a pair that looks practically brand new. “These should fit. Twyler bought them when she was working with the team. Wore them twice before she gave up and stuck with her sneakers.”
I laugh, plopping onto the bench to tug them on. “Perfect. Let’s hope I don’t break an ankle.”
God, Madison, and everyone else associated with the tour would kill me.
“You won’t,” he says firmly, crouching down to help tighten the laces on one boot. His big hands make quick work of the knots, and for some reason, that simple act, him kneeling at myfeet, making sure my skates are secure, sends a wave of heat straight through me. “I won’t let you.”
He puts on his own skates with incredible speed, and when we step onto the ice, it’s like stepping into another world. The place smells faintly of cold metal and rubber, the boards echo every scrape of the blades, and the ice looks impossibly smooth, like glass. I immediately cling to the wall, my legs threatening mutiny.
Jefferson’s laugh is so loud it echoes through the rafters.
“Not funny!” I scold.
“It’s hilarious,” he counters, easily gliding to me and prying my death grip off the boards. “Come on, Angel. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I grumble, wobbling as he pulls me toward the middle, “but my body isn’t so sure.”
He grins, cocky as ever, pulling me flush against him so I can feel the strength of his chest beneath my hands. “That’s okay. You can fall into me.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flutter, and suddenly I’m more worried about melting through the ice than actually falling. Last night was amazing. Hanging out at the bar with his friends, the naughty things we did in room 110. After that, we went back to the Manor and he showed me his room–his bed–and it was perfection.
Now, he skates backward with infuriating ease, dragging me forward with him. For someone who spends their nights doing dance routines and choreography, I’m stiff as a board, walking more than gliding, but soon I’m laughing too hard to care. It’s ridiculous, and fun, and the first time in forever I don’t feel like I’m performing for anyone but myself.
“You’re actually not terrible,” he admits after a few wobbly laps. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
