Page 57 of Fair Catch
He licked his lips, dragged his teeth over the bottom one, and waited.
But his eyes never left mine.
And I stood there, panting, on the verge of crying or screaming or shredding every article of clothing I had on.
And I waited, too.
I waited for the words to come to me, for the reasons why I should be angry with him to fly off my tongue. I waited and waited for awareness to hit, for me to remember why I hated him, to remember why the last thing I should want was for him to kiss me like that again.
But nothing came.
Without rhyme or reason or a single prayer that I could stop myself, I closed the space between us with three long strides, launching myself into his arms.
And he caught me with another kiss that stole any argument left hanging on.
Riley
Hands.
Big, strong, demanding hands.
Big, strong, demanding hands everywhere.
In my hair as he pulled my mouth to his, as he inhaled that next kiss like a man who’d been underwater for years and I was the surface. Gripping my throat as he kissed me harder, like he didn’t know if he wanted to choke me or worship me. Running the length of my body, down my ribs and over my hips until he cupped my ass and lifted me effortlessly.
I was a symphony of breaths and moans as he carried me blindly through the dorm, kicking my bedroom door open with his foot. My next breath was cut short as I was pinned against the wall, and his possessive kiss crawled over my jaw, down my neck, until he nipped at my collarbone and I arched into him, silently begging for more.
Warning bells hissed like the shake of a rattlesnake tail, some far-off voice trying desperately to break through the ecstasy and remind me that this was Zeke unraveling me with every touch.
This was Zeke, my brother’s best friend.
Zeke, my teammate, my roommate.
Zeke — whom I hate, whom I wish had never been born, whom I blame for ruining my brother’s life.
And yet the harder he gripped me, the more he kissed me? The less I could hold onto anything other than the desire to have him inside me.
He dropped my feet to the ground, his hands leaving me only long enough to reach behind his neck and rip his damp shirt off.
“I wanted to kill him,” he seethed, his next breath rippling over his taut chest, his ribs, the mountains and valleys of muscles lining his abdomen. He kissed me again, hand wrapping around my throat and tilting my jaw up until I whimpered into his mouth. “I wanted to fucking murder him, Riley.”
“Why?” I breathed.
He shook his head, his forehead against mine as he licked his lips. “Because I am scarred by the fire you started in me. Because you have reduced me to fucking ashes.”
His hands slid under my shirt, warm and all-encompassing as his fingertips splayed the width of my rib cage, taking the fabric up, up, up, until he peeled it off me completely.
“Because I ache for you,” he breathed against my lips next. “And I’ll end anyone who touches what’s mine.”
His lips brushed mine in the briefest, most punishing kiss before his hands were on my waist, and he spun me, my own hands flying out to catch myself against the wall. He bit the back of my neck as I arched into him, heat pooling between my thighs, my nipples so peaked and ready they ached.
“I’m not yours,” I managed on a breath as he kissed his way across my shoulders.
He laughed — not in a humorous way, but in a dark, terrifying manner that made me shiver as he stripped my sports bra off me next. He leaned into me from behind, and I sucked in a breath at the feeling of his hard-on against my ass before he pulled back just enough to slip his thumbs under the band of my shorts.
“That so?” he murmured in my ear, tongue skating over the lobe before everything trailed down. His hands, pulling my shorts with them. His tongue, licking a line of fire down my spine, his heated voice as he growled against my hip bone. “So… you want me to stop?”
My shorts hit the ground by my ankles, and his fingers walked a lazy line over the hem of my boy shorts, tracing the curve of my ass.
I couldn’t speak.
I tried, racking my brain for some smart-ass remark or some way to combat his cocky declaration that I belonged to him.
But when those fingers glided between my legs from behind, when they slid along the wet, thin fabric separating us, all I could do was gasp.
“You want me to stop touching you?” he goaded, running that treacherous finger along my seam as I shook and held onto the wall for dear life. “You want me to stop… tasting you?”
