Page 76 of Daddies on Ice
The first kiss is tentative, questioning. His lips brush against mine softly, giving me every opportunity to pull away. Instead, I press closer, answering his unspoken question with the tilt of my head and the soft sigh that escapes my throat.
The second kiss is anything but tentative.
Carl’s arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest as his mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely male—floods my senses as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance that I grant without hesitation.
The kiss deepens, becomes something desperate and consuming.
All the days of stolen glances and careful distance, all the professional restraint and unspoken desire, pours out in the connection of our mouths.
Carl’s hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head to give him better access, and I melt into him completely.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine.
“This is dangerous,” he murmurs, but his hands are already trailing down my sides, leaving fire in their wake.
“I know.” My fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, needing to feel skin against skin. “I don’t care.”
“Trisha…” My name sounds like a prayer on his lips as I push the fabric up and press my palms against the warm expanse of his chest. His muscles jump under my touch, and the sharp intake of his breath sends satisfaction coursing through me.
“Don’t think,” I whisper against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. “Just feel.”
His response is to spin us around, pressing my back against the window as his mouth finds mine again.
He quickly closes the curtains to keep us from prying eyes, then melts his mouth to mine again.
This kiss is hungrier, more demanding, and I meet it with equal fervor.
The cool glass through the curtains against my back contrasts sharply with the heat of Carl’s body pressed against my front, creating a delicious tension that makes me arch into him.
His hands roam my body with reverent touches, mapping every curve through the fabric of my sweater.
When his thumbs brush across my ribs, just below my breasts, I gasp into his mouth and feel him smile against my lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, trailing kisses along my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
The confession sends heat spiraling through me, and I tug him closer, needing more contact, more of everything he’s offering. My hands explore the planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his shoulders, memorizing every detail.
Carl’s mouth works its way down my throat, finding the pulse point at the base of my neck and lavishing attention there until I’m trembling in his arms.
The Christmas lights from outside cast a warm glow through the window, painting our reflection in golden hues that make the moment feel almost dreamlike.
“Carl,” I whisper his name like a plea, and he responds by lifting me slightly, pressing me more firmly against the glass as his hips align with mine.
The evidence of his desire is unmistakable, and it sends a thrill of power through me to know I affect him as much as he affects me.
Just as his hands begin to work at the hem of my sweater, his phone buzzes insistently on the desk. We both freeze, the spell momentarily broken by the intrusion of reality.
“Ignore it,” I breathe against his ear, but the phone buzzes again, more urgently.
Carl pulls back slightly, conflict clear in his eyes. “It might be important. Game night and all…”
Reluctantly, I nod, understanding even as every cell in my body protests the interruption.
Carl moves to the desk, his shirt still hanging open, and checks his phone.
The sight of him—hair mussed from my fingers, lips swollen from our kisses, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths—makes me want to drag him back to me and forget about whatever message awaits.
