Page 57 of Playing to Win
This guy is going to ruin me.
I just know it.
His hands slide down farther and he lifts away from my chest, his palms sliding around my hips and over my ass, urging me up. I go with his silent command and he lifts me, my legs automatically winding around his hips, bringing my core to rest directly on his erection. And oh yes, he’s gloriously hard.
My God, he’s big.
He rubs me against him, his mouth finding mine once more, devouring me completely, and I let him. I bask in the way he kisses me, his hands on my butt, his cock nudging against me over and over, my entire body a mass of tingles. He pins me to the wall and ends the kiss, pulling away slightly.
I open my eyes to find him studying me, his expression intense. Downright thunderous. I’m on total display, vulnerable and open to him with my shirt shoved up and my chest exposed. I can tell from the heat emanating from his gaze that he likes what he sees but still.
It’s a little unsettling.
“We need to get rid of this,” he mutters, and a thrill runs through me when he tugs at the shirt. I help him take it off, a moan leaving me when he runs his mouth across the top of my breasts, worshiping my skin with his mouth.
A girl could get used to this kind of treatment, especially one who hasn’t had sex with anyone else in a long time.
That would be me. It’s been forever and maybe I’m just primed and ready for action because it’s been so long, but I don’t know.
I think it might be him. And the way he touches me.
“Come on.” His hands shift beneath my ass, holding me tighter. “Let’s go to my room.”
I don’t say a word, just let him carry me through the dark apartment, clinging to him. I sling my arms around his neck, my face pressed against it and I breathe in the spicy scent of his cologne, the clean smell of his skin. He carries me like I don’t weigh a thing, and I wonder why I haven’t hooked up with any athletes before.
It’s true. I avoid them for the most part because they’re such a part of my life that I think I subconsciously sought out someone different. But here I am, wrapped around a football player, impressed by his strength. He makes me feel small and dainty and completely protected and I can’t lie.
It’s hot.
Everything he does is hot.
Once we’re in his bedroom, I barely have a chance to lift my head and check things out before he’s depositing me on the bed and following right after me, his big body pressing me into the mattress. His mouth finds mine for a quick, tongue-sweeping kiss before he ends it, reaching across me to flick on the lamp that sits on the nightstand, the room illuminated with soft, warm light.
“I like to look,” he explains before he rises above me and gets rid of his shirt.
I practically swallow my tongue at the sight of his chest and abs so close, suddenly grateful he turned on the light.
Seems I like to look too.
His mouth returns to mine and I lose myself in the sweep of his tongue. The sting of his teeth tugging on my lower lip. His hands are wandering all over my body, big and hot and with slightly rough fingertips that leave a trail of sparks wherever he touches me. I rest my hands on his broad shoulders, my fingers curling around the muscles there, marveling at how hard he is, clinging to him.
There’s not an ounce of body fat on this man and that leaves me feeling more than a little intimidated. And while I’m usually pretty confident when it comes to this sort of thing—messing around with a guy—I can’t help the self-doubt that slowly washes over me. I’m not what I would call at peak physical fitness, meaning my belly is a little soft from too many late-night pizza deliveries with Natalie because we’re always hungry around midnight.
And when his fingers drift across my stomach, I’m suddenly batting his hand away, thinking of how bloated I felt last night, blaming it on how much salt I consumed.
He ends the kiss, lifting up so he can look into my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Um…” I bite my lower lip, feeling stupid. “Nothing.”
He’s frowning. “What is it, Ruby?”
I sort of miss hearing him call me Red, which is silly. “You’re just—really muscular.”
He grins, and I’m sure he’s pleased I noticed. How could I not? “I work out every single day for hours. I should be muscular.”
“Well, I’m not. I eat pizza. And Subway, which I’ve heard they don’t even use real bread. Not that bread is good for you. It’s not. And I drink too much Diet Coke. Oh God, and I have a total sweet tooth. Did you know that? I can bake a mean chocolate chip cookie, though I’m guessing you don’t eat them.”
He’s smiling, and the glow in his eyes is downright tender as he studies me. “I love chocolate chip cookies.”
