Page 132 of Facing Off
“So cocky,” I accuse breathlessly.
“No one is as cocky as me,” he agrees. “No one but me for you.”
He’s the hockey captain now, wrapping his large hands around my waist and pulling me onto his lap. Holding me like he’s in charge. “You know the deal. Keep talking.”
“And say what?”
“Tell me that you know, that you matter.”
He’s already unraveled me enough, does he have to keep going?
I want to shut him up by putting my mouth on his, trapping it closed. I have to, because the vulnerability he’s pulling on is cracking me open. I don’t know how to close myself back up again. I feel as if I’m spilling messily all over the place.
But just as hungrily and selfishly and fiercely, I actually don’t want him to stop. I’m collecting every word.
Adrian stares at me, then strokes my hair. His smile temporarily drops. “Your foster parents didn’t deserve you.”
“You’re so sure?—”
“Every time they didn’t pay attention,” he growls, “it was their fucking loss. Because you are worth listening to, worth celebrating, worth watching, worth cheering on, worth loving?—”
I shut his mouth up, but not with my own. My hand blocks his lips.
You’re getting inside me,I wish to accuse sharply.I’ve spent my whole life guarding myself so fiercely that many people think I don’t have a heart.Or that it’s not very big. But it’s there.Leaning, crawling, reaching out, wanting more.Scared but wanting to believe everything you’re saying is true, but most of all just wanting…you.
My forehead meets his. “I need this.”
A whole paragraph of emotions parsed down. Could he possibly know what I mean when I say those three words out loud?
One thing is sure. There’s no drape his shirt can use to hide how much he wants me. The thick ridge driving outward and to the right of his pants is unmistakable. I see it again. That perplexing, mouth-watering curve.
My chest heaves. More. I want more. I roll my hips, squirming and grinding until my pelvis presses against his thigh, losing my mind. My clit throbs, seeking more pressure.
I grind harder.
“Sonya.” He pulls my hand off his mouth. His jaw rolls as he holds my gaze. “Baby, you might burn your pretty pussy doing that. Let me?—”
His hands move from my hips down to the curve of my ass, grabbing me firmly. I want to rub harder against him,but he doesn’t let me. I’m picked up and put down again in the middle of the couch.
He sinks down to his knees on the floor before me.
I moan, unable to help it.
I’ll never get used to this.
The man carrying the heavy burden of winning another Stanley Cup for our city, a man I’ve also mocked in the past for being smug and arrogant and too self-aggrandizing, is kneeling before me, his hair at the perfect height for me to run my fingers through it.
When I do, his eyes flutter shut. “You have no idea how good that feels,” he shudders out. His voice is gone. It’s gravel and smoke. Ruined.
I want to outline his face this time, mapping out his beautiful eyes, strong nose, that incomparable mouth—but he doesn’t let me. “No. I can’t think when you touch me.”
But I want him to be desperate like me. To bite back his own groans.
I reach down to grab ahold of his hardness, but Adrian doesn’t let me. He opens me wider until I’m dropping backwards, my knees trembling. His eyes lock with mine as hands trace patterns up the side of my legs, setting each nerve ending on fire. “Is it okay if I take your pants off?”
I nod.
“Remember our rules. You have to talk or I won’t touch you.”
