Page 79 of Riding the Pine

My stomach drops. Is this my Valentine’s Day fate? To be stood up by my boyfriend?

Hands grip my hips from behind, pulling me against a solid body. His hands skim my stomach and obliques as they travel up my body, settling on my breasts.

“Beep! Beep!” He honks my boobs while burrowing his bristly chin against my neck. “Right here, Bright Eyes.” He squeezes my boobs harder, pulling a low moan from me, his cock hardening against my ass. “I said no gifts.”

I shrug, tipping my head back against his shoulder. “What can I say? I’m the gift that keeps on giving.”

He points past me toward the couch. “I see a bag.”

Holding my hands up, I turn to face him. “Just snacks, nothing more. And if you don’t want them, I’ll take them.” I give him my most innocent smile, batting my eyelashes up at him. “Plus, I’d bring snacks at any time. It has nothing to do with the fact it’s Valentine’s.”

It’s all true, and he can’t argue.

He opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut.

Smart man.

“I’m not arguing with you, Athena, but I am eating your snacks.”

I grin at him. “I’m a snack.”

He slides his hands under my hoodie and finds my skin. “You’re my favorite snack.”

There’s a war happening on his face. He clearly wants to bounce me on his cock here and now, but there’s something else on his face. After a long moment stretching out between us, he shakes his head. “Not yet. I have a plan, dammit. I’m not letting you distract me with your wiles.”

“My… what?”

He wags a finger at me as he walks toward my kitchen. “Your wiles.”

“Aaaaand which part of me would that be, exactly, Mr. Raine?” I purse my lips together, ogling his hockey butt as he ignores me, continuing his journey to the kitchen.

He shakes his head. “I’d answer, but I’m afraid you might turn me into a spider if I get too sassy.”

I love when he brings the mythology. “She didn’t turn Arachne into a spider because she was sassy, she turned her into a spider because she was a wicked good seamstress.”

He spins to face me, pointing finger guns at me. “I’m wicked good at so many things. And I think making webs would be so much fun.” His finger guns morph into Spiderman hands as he pretends to shoot webbing out of his hands.

Do they ever really grow up?

I shake my head, letting out a semi-exasperated laugh. “What’s the plan?” I’d normally rock back on my heels and tuck my hands into the ass pockets of my jeans, except I’m not wearing them. I’m not wearing heels, or jeans, or my signature red lipstick, and to be honest, I feel kind of… vulnerable?

He flashes me a devastatingly handsome smile, gesturing for me to step all-the-way into the kitchen. He’s wearing an old, worn UCR t-shirt and those low-riding grey sweats that make me swallow my tongue and turn my brain into a porn show. Fucking hell.

When he lifts his hands above his head, making his shirt ride up so I can see his Adonis belt peeking out between the fabric, he snickers.

We both know I’m wet, just from seeing a sliver of his skin and his junk sitting pretty in those sweats. Bare feet complete the package, and while I wouldn’t go barefoot in the hockey house, the fact he’s not wearing shoes or anything in my home makes something stir inside me.

The man is a vision, he’s tall, more startlingly gorgeous than I think he realizes, and he’s just good vibes, you know?

As though he’s seeing the pornographic footage on repeat inside my mind, he reaches behind his head, grabs the neck of his shirt, and pulls it off over his head.

Sweet, delicious abs, it’s not even my birthday.

He discards his shirt over the back of one of my dining chairs and picks something up from the counter. When he tosses it to me, he smirks. “Catch, Bright Eyes.”

It lands in my hand, a cream, squishy ball of dough. “¿Qué es esto? Pizza dough?”

He nods, still smirking. “You ready to get your hands dirty, pretty girl?”

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