Page 8 of Net and Chill
“Really? Because the lost-crying-car-breakdown-gas-station-hot-dog-guy was my last official date too.” I reach for my nearly-empty glass of iced tea and say, “I’ll drink to your shitty dates!”
Letting go of my feet, he picks up his glass and says, “I’ll drink toyourshitty dates.”
We clink glasses, polish off our iced teas, and both return our glasses to the coffee table at the same time. My hand brushes against his. He taps the remote, lowering the volume of the movie, then places that big hand of his on my thigh. The movie, even though it has reached a part that’s hard to ignore, fades into the background as movies often do when two attractive young people are sharing a sofa.
Craig Bowman is very attractive, but he seems older than twenty-four to me. His blue eyes are wise and so attentive. His body is large and fit and capable. But his hands. He puts his hands through a lot. He’s got one arm draped over the back of the sofa, but he’s lazily stroking the back of my neck and staring at me. Not in a creepy way—it’s bold and intense. I can’t quite look him in the eyes yet, so I study his hand. Dragging my fingertips from his veiny forearm down to his fingers, I stroke the palm of his hand with my thumb. The skin on his hands is so callused. More so than all the guitar players I’ve been with.
“I noticed something about your hands when Iwas measuring your shirt sleeves today,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Well, two things, actually. You flex your hands a lot.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And the pattern of calluses on your hands are different.” I turn the palm of his left hand up and trace my fingers around the edges. “The palm of this hand is smoother than the right. But the fingers have calluses. This is your glove hand?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And your right hand…” He slides his hand across my shoulder and down my arm to place it face up in my lap. It sends a delicious shiver down my spine. “This is the hand you use to hold the big pad thing?”
“The blocker.”
“The blocker. You have so many calluses along your palm here. Is this where you grip the stick?”
“Mm-hmm.” His voice is getting deeper. He’s very good at controlling his body and his breath, but I sense that he’s getting ready to loosen his grip on that self-control soon, and I am all for it.
I read fabric and garments. I read how bodies move through the world by the stress points on theirclothes. But I can read Craig Bowman’s hands too. They tell a story of his career and dedication—every practice, every game, every season. And I want those hands all over me. Not over my clothes; I want to feel those calluses drag across every inch of my bare skin.
I’m no puck bunny, but I get it now. I get why women go nuts for hockey players. I want this. I watched him walk away from the shop this morning in sweatpants, and it looked like there were two helmets fighting for position on a built-in shelf on his upper thighs. I need to get my hands on those magnificent gluteals.
He slides his hands up my thighs to my hips, my waist. “Does Pressed and Blessed have a policy about not getting intimate with customers, Miss Cross?”
I blow out a laugh. “My dad practically begged you to date me this morning—what do you think?”
Exactly like he did in the fitting room when I landed in his lap, Craig effortlessly lifts me up by my waist and maneuvers me so I’m straddling him. This time I’m a traditional cowgirl.Yeehaw.
He leans in, lips so close to mine they’d touch if I tilted my chin up a centimeter, and he says, “Ithink you’re cool, and I’m really into you, Bridget. But I don’t do relationships, okay?”
Wow. This man is cut from a different cloth as the rest of the guys I’ve fooled around with. But he’s definitely not someone I’d date seriously. But he is for sure someone I need to attempt sex with. For science. But I also need to make sure he understands who he’s dealing with. Even though the way he’s massaging my hips might bring me to orgasm.
“Excuse me, are you friend zoning me? Is that what’s happening?”
“No, I don’t tell the women I want to stay friends with that I’m into them while they’re straddling me, especially after their fingers have grazed my stick. I’m trying to establish a boundary thatincludessex.” He proceeds to somehow remove my blouse while still maintaining a minimal space between us and holding my gaze.
“Okay, first of all, I was doing my job—it’s not my fault your stick is so substantial.” I squeeze my upper thighs around that monumental gear as I make my point. “Secondly, are you assuming I want to date you?” My hands explore the vast landscape of Craig’s chest over his T-shirt and slowly begin to rock my hips, just the tiniest bit. “I do not datehockey players. I date stoner-artist types who can’t find the city of Vancouver or my G-spot. I thought I made that clear.”
“You did.” He strokes the exposed skin of my waist with his thumbs, steadily traces concentric circles and just this…just thisis doing it for me. That rough skin on my soft skin when he’s being so gentle. “I’m just trying to be clear about what I want and what I’m not looking for,” he continues. “And I want to get you naked. Soon.”
“Okay. Hang on. I thought I was offended, but I think I like this.”
“Good.”
I slip my hands under his shirt, finding his abs, and dear lord, have mercy. This is not something I have actually felt before. “You’re saying you just want to hook up tonight and that’s it?”
Our faces are still less than an inch apart when he skims his palms across both my nipples. I’m not wearing a bra, and the fabric of my camisole is a thin barrier between my erect nipple and the palm of his hand. I want those hands on me so badly, and if he’s going to tease me I don’t think I can handle it. “I want to hook up tonight,” he says, as calmly and politely as if he’s ordering off a take-out menu. Meanwhile, I’m quivering, likeJust order the special!We’ll be ready in five minutes!“If you enjoy yourself, then maybe we can hook up again while I’m in town. But I’m not looking for a girlfriend.”
“Great. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, but I would like to touch your butt, in extremely unprofessional ways.”
