Page 44 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
“I enjoyed myself,” I tell her, squeezing her fingers with mine.
She doesn’t seem entirely mollified by that answer, still studying me with that narrow-eyed look. “I just … I don’t want you doing things just for me and hating life the whole time. I promise you from experience, that it doesn’t end well.”
Stopping, I pull her around to face me, looking into her eyes. “I promise that if there’s ever something that I don’t want to do, I will be honest and upfront about it. I will not pretend to enjoy myself while building up resentment. And I will also not try to stop you from doing things you enjoy even if I don’t particularly like them myself. Okay?”
With her lips pressed together in a tight line, she studies me a moment longer before releasing a heavy breath. “Yeah. Okay. I think I can live with that.”
“Good.” I tip her chin up and brush a kiss over her lips. I’ve managed to sneak in a few kisses throughout the evening, both on the cheek and on her lips. But I’m more than ready to get her alone, especially now that we’re out of the museum.
She kisses me back, taking a second to open her eyes again after we part like she’s savoring the kiss.
“Can we go back to my place?” I ask in a low voice.
Her eyes glittering, she dips her chin in a nod. “Yes.” Her voice is even huskier than mine, and the sound of it has all my blood rushing south.
Wordlessly, we climb into the car, and I navigate the way to my building, reaching over and caressing her knee as I drive. Shelays her hand on top of mine, smiling at me when I glance her way.
We eventually manage to chat about the museum and talk about ideas for what we want to do tomorrow. I’m hoping she’ll stay the night, though we haven’t explicitly discussed it. I didn’t—don’t—want to assume anything about what will happen once we get back to my place. But I know what Iwantto happen. The tension lays thick between us, even though we’re both doing our best to ignore it.
Once we’re finally in my building, we fall silent again as we wait for the elevator and ride it up to my floor. Fortunately, we don’t encounter either of my teammates who live here. The last thing I want to do is make small talk with Dozer or Connor right now. Theonlything on my mind is getting Maggie alone.
Maggie clings to my hand as I lead us to my door, pull out my keys, and let us inside. Kicking the door closed behind us, I pull her in front of me, wrapping an arm around her back. She stares up into my eyes, her lips parted, waiting …
I kiss her. And this one’s nothing like the few chaste kisses we’ve exchanged this evening. She opens for me immediately, and I taste her thoroughly, like I’m going to be quizzed about it later and I’m determined to get a hundred percent.
She clings to me, her hands gripping my shoulders, and I haul her close, nearly picking her up off her feet.
Breaking away, she chuckles weakly, and I set her back on her feet. “Sorry,” I murmur, not quite releasing her. “Was that too much?”
She shakes her head. “No. Just … not what I expected.”
I arch an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”
Another giggle. “Well, the kissing, sure. But I can’t remember the last time anyone picked me up.”
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” With that, I turns her sideways and her eyes go wide as I literally sweep her off her feet, picking her up like a bride and carrying her to the couch. Turning, I sit so she’s draped across my lap, her back resting against the tall arm of my couch.
Tightening my arm behind her, I pull her up so I can kiss her again, taking my time to savor the feel of her lips against mine, the way she kisses me back, the way she squirms in my lap like she’s trying to get closer, the soft sighs when I leave her mouth and trail kisses down her neck. She tips her head back, giving me access, and I take that as tacit permission to continue down past her collarbone. Her dress tonight reveals a lovely expanse of flawless skin and more than a hint of her generous cleavage.
Her hand comes up to the back of my head, running through my hair as I kiss my way down her chest until I’m nuzzling the top of her cleavage. When she runs her fingers through my hair again, I lift my head, returning to her lips, shifting sideways to make room to lay her down. My couch is pretty deep, but it’ll still be a tight fit with the two of us lying on here. Our lower halves are all tangled together, I’m lying on the side of my hip propped over her, looking down at her as I brush a few stray hairs out of her face.
Reaching up, she cups my face in return, her fingers rasping against my stubble, and I turn into the caress, enjoying the simple affection.
I don’t think a woman’s ever touched me that way before.
It’s not something I’ve sought out. Most of my relationships—if you can even call them that—have lasted less than twenty-four hours. There wasn’t any real affection in those couplings, just lust and desire.
There’s lust and desire here, too, but the affection is new and different for me.
I like it.
It feels really good.
“Kiss me,” she whispers, and how can I do anything but exactly what she asks?
So I do. I kiss her until I feel like there’s nothing more in this world but her lips, her skin, her body beneath me. She has become my whole world, and I would happily stay here forever.
But then her fingers catch on my shirt near my belt. At first I think it’s an accident, but when she tugs a second time, pulling the fabric free, it’s clear to me that it’s intentional. She pulls again, untucking half my shirt, then she slips her hand beneath it, sighing when she touches my skin.
