Page 77 of Top Shelf
It’s still early November, but this is eclipsing my Norris finalist season by miles. I’m up to six goals and almost at a point per game. According to my teammates who spend far more time on social media than I do, my name is splashed all over the place. I’m the talk of the hockey world. My agent even called me up the other day to tell me to keep my foot on the gas because this could mean a hell of a lot more than a one-year contract from the Serpents. It’s everything I wanted, and while I’m happy as fuck out on the ice, it’s not even close to what’s causing the permanent smile on my face.
It’s Nessa. We’ve spent the last three weeks falling into bed together every chance we get, and while it’s been incredible, it’s theothermoments, like today, that really make my heart thud.
“This place is amazing,” she says, and not for the first time.
We’ve been walking around the Seattle Art Museum for two hours, moving leisurely from one installation to another. Sometimes she’ll have an interpretation of what we’re lookingat, and sometimes she’ll just stand there quietly, slowly falling in love with what she sees.
Me? I’m looking at her. I’vebeenlooking at her. Gun to my head, I couldn’t describe a single piece of art we’ve seen together. I’m sure whatever is on the walls and in the cases is nice, but she’s the most beautifully crafted thing here.
I knew two weeks ago, when I saw her sitting on the rooftop with her sketchbook, that I wanted to bring her here. She was so concentrated on her art that she didn’t hear me come out there. I think it took her ten minutes before she registered my presence, and the whole time, I watched her. Her tongue kept rolling over her lips, her brows tight as she stroked her pencil against the page. She was lost in whatever she was creating, and the only other time I’ve seen her so alive was when I was inside her.
Then, when she showed me what she was working on… Call me biased or whatever, but I’ve never seen something so beautiful before. Talking about how she’s not studio-worthy—that’s bullshit. She deserves to be up on these walls as much as any of the other artists do.
We mosey to the next room, and she stops in front of a giant painting of a tiger that looks like it’s ready to pounce on its prey. There’s a cub in the background drinking from a waterhole, its eyes focused on its parent. The whole thing is done in watercolor.
“I think this might be my favorite one.”
Nessa stares up at the painting on the wall, her eyes wide in approbation, her plump lips—the ones that still taste like cherry lip gloss—parted as she takes the piece in.
“You said that about the last three pieces we saw,” I point out, itching to reach over and touch her.
Not that I think any of my teammates are spending their day off cruising around here, but we’ve tried to maintain a healthy distance between us just in case. You can never be too careful.
“Yeah, but I think I mean it this time.”
She doesn’t. I know that, and she does too, but I allow it anyway.
“Something about it is so…raw,” she continues, still staring up at the giant canvas. “I think it’s a metaphor for life. How we can fight for our innocence, but the real world will always rear its ugly head and strip it away from us, no matter who tries to protect us from it.”
It’s not what I would have guessed by looking at it, but after hearing her thoughts, it makes perfect sense, and I see the image in a whole new light. We stand there for several more moments, and even though I’m done looking at this particular piece, I don’t rush her. I let her take her time with it. After all, this date is for her. I’m not really into art, but it makes her happy, and that’s all that matters.
“Sorry,” she says after a while, finally walking away.
I shake my head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’d stand here for hours if that were what you wanted.”
She peeks up at me. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because it makes me want to kiss you, that’s why.”
Ten words, and my resolve shatters like a plate crashing to the ground. I grab her hand, tugging her through the quiet museum, looking left and right as I go. I need somewhere I can kiss her without prying eyes.
“Gavin!” she whisper-yells, but there’s no anger behind the words. She wants this as badly as I do.
I haul her into a small alcove, pressing her back against the wall and fitting my body against hers like I’ve done so many times in the last few weeks.
“What are you?—”
I swallow her question with my kiss, and she softens into me like she can’t help but give in, not that I think she even had muchfight to begin with. I slip one hand into her hair, loving the way her soft waves feel against my fingers, moving her until she’s just where I want her. Her palms spread against my back, her nails digging into me and urging me on.
I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself when I bunch that hot-as-fuck skirt she’s wearing into my hand and inch it higher. I need to touch her. I need to feel her fall apart beneath me. When my fingers skim the tops of her thighs, dancing along the soft skin I’ve spent a lot of time kissing, she gasps, and I use the opportunity to push my tongue into her mouth. I brush my knuckle right between her legs, and she bucks her hips wildly, searching for more of the touch. More ofme.
I bet if I were to look down where I’m rubbing against her, there would be a wet spot on her panties, and fuck if that doesn’t turn me on even more. When I press against her harder, she moans into my mouth, and there’s nothing quiet about it.
“Shh,” I say, pulling away, kissing along her jaw. “You have to be quiet, love, understand?”
She nods, then spreads her thighs wider, giving me more access. I take advantage of it, slipping my finger into her underwear. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as I plunge two fingers into her warm cunt, and I chuckle at how hard she’s trying not to make a noise. We’re hidden right now, but all it’s going to take is one wrong noise and we’ll be caught.
