Page 33 of Fashionista's Playbook

How can one man unintentionally be that sexy? It would be annoying if it wasn’t so hot. As the opening credit sequence ran, I was acutely aware of his arm and its proximity to the exposed back of my neck. When he absently twirled the end of my ponytail, gooseflesh jumped across my skin.

I couldn’t focus on the show, not even a little. By the halfway mark, Travis had slumped down on the couch, his leg thrown out onto the ottoman so that the tattoo of the beaten, scarred warrior rising from the field of battle showed prominently. Tattoos had never been my thing; I’d never been into inked guys. But on Travis, it worked.

A little too much.I shifted around on the couch and found myself even closer than I was before.

His body was close enough the heat emanating off him warmed me. I lost the ability to concentrate on anything—because I couldn’t stop looking athim. Each time I tried to watch the television or even study the grain on the paneled walls, mygaze flickered back to Travis. I soaked up the way the t-shirt fit so snugly across his chest and then looked lower.

I jerked my face around, my cheeks hot. Travis chuckled, but I couldn’t tell if he was amused by me or the show. When I glanced back, he was definitely laughing at the images on the screen. Too bad I couldn’t make out what the actors were saying over the hum of blood in my ears.

I didn’t dare move, even to get up, because each time I did, I ended up closer to Travis. And the more that happened, the more I fought the urge to crawl into his lap. Very unlike me.

So is everything you do when Travis is close.

This time, he shifted and the back of his hand brushed across my thigh. I held my breath, waiting. When he didn’t immediately remove the slight touch, the blood rushing in my ears turned to a roar.

I didn’t move away from him, I swallowed hard and tried to watch the episode. I’d seen it before, knew the big climax was coming, and we’d be done until next week. But I didn’t want the contact, as miniscule as it was, to end. Tiny jolts of electricity shot up from where his knuckles rested against my cotton clad thigh to my groin.

A slow beat of silence passed on the screen and resonated through the room. I was frozen to the spot. I should move, get up and leave. It was past time for me to go home.

Then Travis moved so that he stroked my thigh, trailing the back of his hand up the outside of my thigh and back down again. Sent a shiver through me. My nipples grew taut and my mouth watered. I wanted him to touch me more—to have his hands all over me.

I closed my eyes to fight back the arousal that was building at my core; but only wanted him more.

“Travis…” I whispered, half questioning-half pleading.

He jerked his hand away and sat up straight on the couch. “I’m sorry, Moriah. I didn’t even realize—”

I placed my fingers against his mouth, the heat of his breath rushing across the digits. My touch was so sudden, it surprised even me. His lips were warm and oh so kissable. My pulse hammered away against my ribs, desire blazing through me. I would have kissed him, but Travis was completely still, his face an unreadable mask.

When he didn’t react, I pulled away. I’d made a mistake, misread his touch, something. Panic turned to sheer horror. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”

His hard exterior softened and he grabbed my hand. He sighed a bit, half-closed his eyes, then brushed his lips across the tips of my fingers in the softest kiss.

I relaxed a little.

“When you touch me, it makes me want things I can’t afford.” I offered weakly, not trusting myself to say much more.

From behind thick lashes, his eyes darkened; an intimate change of his features that spoke to me in a truly primal way. He kissed my fingertips, stroked his hand down my wrist and back up before rubbing small circles against the beat of my pulse.

“If I don’t get you out of my system, Mariposa, I’m going to explode. But I’d never ask you to do something you didn’t want just as badly. I won’t ruin what we have—for sex.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. At the slight surge of pain, I admitted to myself that Travis Madera—Tightest of the Tight Ends—wantedme.

My entire body quivered with need as I pulled my hand from his grasp.

A little voice in my head reminded me that this didn’t happen to girls like me. I wasn’t some internet celebrity or social media influencer with a killer body—even if I was working on my tummy bulge.

And yet another, more confident voice reminded me that Travis wasn’t some high school jerk, this wasn’t some elaborate, embarrassing setup. I was a badass, worthy of attention from a multi-million-dollar professional athlete who was built like a mythological demi-god.

Slowly, bravely, I tilted my face toward his. There was something hot and needy in his dark gaze when he dipped his chin to meet me halfway.

His lips were soft at first, then grew more incessant as he tilted his head and kissed me deeper, sliding his tongue into my mouth. He tasted spicy and a little minty, but more the erotic slide of his tongue against mine stoked a fire inside me I hadn’t realized could burn that hot.

I arched against him, my body itching to be closer, to be touched. I needed more from Travis than just a kiss. I reached for him, running my fingers up the hard length of his body that I’d wanted to touch so badly.

When he groaned and broke the kiss to move his mouth across my jaw, I angled my head and offered him the column of my throat. Travis feasted there, his hands gripped my thighs, bunching in the cotton of my leggings like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull them down or rip them off.

Either way worked for me, I didn’t care, as long as he didn’t stop.

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