Page 98 of Play Along With Me
"Very okay," I assure him, appreciating his consideration but also craving more directness. "I promise to tell you if anything isn't. But for now, consider this blanket consent for... exploration."
"Exploration," he repeats, the word somehow sounding both scientific and deeply sensual in his voice. "I like that."
"I thought you might," I smile against his mouth. "You strike me as a thorough person."
"I am," he confirms, his hands continuing their journey along my back, finding the zipper of my dress. "Very detail-oriented. Coaches say it's my best quality as a goalie."
"I suspect your coaches and I value slightly different applications of that skill set," I observe dryly, making him laugh.
"Context matters," he agrees, hesitating with his fingers on my zipper. "This okay?"
Instead of answering verbally, I turn in his arms, presenting my back to him more directly. The message is clear: proceed.
He draws the zipper down slowly, deliberately, the rasp of it loud in the quiet room. As the fabric parts, he places a soft kiss at the nape of my neck, just below my hairline, sending a shiver dancing down my spine. Another kiss follows, slightly lower, his lips tracing a path along my newly exposed skin.
"Cold?" he asks, noticing my shiver.
"Definitely not," I manage, my voice coming out huskier than intended.
He continues his methodical exploration, pushing the dress off my shoulders until it pools at my feet, leaving me in my bra and underwear. For a moment, he just looks at me, his gaze a tangible warmth against my skin.
"You're beautiful," he says simply.
I fight the urge to deflect with humor—my instinctive response to genuine compliments—and instead just say, "Thank you."
Then, feeling suddenly unbalanced by the disparity in our states of undress, I tug at the hem of his shirt. "Your turn, Hockey Jesus. Too many clothes for proper exploration."
He obliges, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion that speaks to years of athletic training. And—oh. Well then.
I knew Jake was fit—that was obvious even through his clothes—but seeing him shirtless is an entirely different experience. His chest and abdomen are defined without being showy, the functional muscle of an athlete rather than the aesthetic muscle of someone who works out purely for appearance. There's a scar running along his right side, about three inches long, and another smaller one near his left shoulder.
"Hockey injuries?" I ask, tracing the longer scar with my fingertip.
"Surgery to repair a torn oblique," he confirms. "Sophomore year of college. The shoulder was from a skate blade—got under my pads during a scramble in front of the net."
"Battle scars," I murmur, leaning forward to press my lips to the shoulder scar, an impulse I don't examine too closely.
His breath catches at the contact, his hands finding my waist again, thumbs tracing small circles against my skin. The simple touch sets off sparks that travel outward, heightening my awareness of every point where our bodies connect.
We move toward the bed in a slow dance of continuing exploration—his mouth finding the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, my fingers discovering the trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, our bodies gradually eliminating every barrier between us.
By the time we tumble onto his bed, we're both breathing hard, skin flushed with desire and anticipation. Jake hovers above me, his weight supported on his forearms, his eyes searching mine with that intense focus I'm coming to recognize as characteristic.
"Still okay?" he asks, ever mindful.
"More than okay," I assure him, pulling him down for another kiss. "Though I think I was promised thorough exploration, and there are still... areas... that require attention."
His laugh is warm against my lips. "So demanding."
"I contain multitudes," I inform him solemnly, then gasp as his hand slides between us, finding exactly the right spot. "Oh—multitudes of that, please."
He laughs again, the sound mingling with my soft moan as he continues his attentions. "Like this?"
"Exactly like that," I confirm, my hips rising instinctively to meet his touch. "You're very good at taking direction."
"Years of coaching," he quips, then grows more serious, his gaze intent on my face. "Tell me what you like, Audrey. I want to make this good for you."
The sincerity in his voice, the genuine desire to please rather than to impress, touches something in me beyond the physical. I reach up to cup his face, drawing him down for a kiss that I hope conveys what I'm finding difficult to put into words—appreciation, affection, a connection that's rapidly becoming more significant than I'd anticipated.
