Page 117 of Scoring the Player

I’m expecting us both to land in a boneless heap on the floor, but he backs us slowly to the couch.

If he’s surprised when I turn and straddle him, easing him back inside me, and suck on his neck, he doesn’t show it.

His head falls back as I suckle his skin, and his finger circles my rim where I’m stretched around him.

When he slips out of me, he replaces his erection with his fingers.

“Whuh’s that?” I slur as a pinging sound cuts through the crackle of the fire.

“Dinner.”

“Smells good.”

He raises my chin and brushes a kiss against my lips. “How do you feel?”

I snicker.

The right corner of his mouth curves up. “What’s funny?”

“I’m literally plastered to you like skin, drunk off your dick.”

He rubs a soothing circle across my lower back.

“You okay?” I ask, searching his eyes.

“Yeah, Blue.” His voice scratches like coarse sand. “I’m living a dream.”

“I burned them.”I pluck the almonds off his plate.

His lips roll in.

“I told you I can’t cook.”

“They’re not that bad.” He takes them back. “And I’ll teach you.”

“I could never make this.” I pile more of the cinnamon-y and peppery chicken tagine onto my plate. When I look up, he’s watching me with a small grin.

“What?” I wipe my mouth.

“Nothing.”

I shrug and return to my third helping. I usually hate when sweet mixes with savory, but I can’t get enough of the glazed apricots.

After we cleaned up—more like he insisted on cleaning me up—and changed into sweats and tees, I followed him into the kitchen.

I had one job—to toast the almonds.

My head snaps up. “You knew they were burnt. Didn’t you?”

He grins. “I mean, it was your third try.”

I fling one at him, and it bounces off his chest onto the sheet we’ve spread across the floor.

His phone lights up next to me.

“Who’s Josiah?

“My dog sitter.”