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His warm hand slides over the skin of my wrist and his grip shackles me gently. “It was all for you.”
I laugh a little, waving over my outfit. “You’re just saying that because I dressed up for you.”
His gaze drags over my bare legs, to the tight fit of my top. “If you’re trying to torture me, it’s working.”
I look up into his smoldering sapphire eyes. “I’m not trying to torture you, Elias. I’m trying to save you from yourself. We can’t do this.”
His other hand eases around the nape of my neck, gripping not-quite-but-almost painfully. “Oh, we’re doing this, angel girl.” His eyes challenge me to stop him.
But for reasons known only to my little mermaid-devil, who’s gleefully leaning in, that’s one thing I don’t seem to be capable of doing.
It’s the insanely alluring scent of him, like firewood that’s been warmed by the sun. I don’t why I say that. He triggers a memory. Of a weekend trip up to the Adirondacks with my mom and my sister, to meet up with my mom’s old college roommate. It was late September, maybe five or six years ago. I remember the name of the lake too, because it perfectly summed up how I felt about the whole experience: Paradox Lake. I hadn’t wanted to go. I’d wanted to stay home with my dad, and paint. He couldn’t get away because it was football season. But my mom talked me into it. She was excited. She wanted me with her, “to make memories together,” she’d said at the time. There’d been a neatly stacked pile of wood near the cabin, like a big rectangular puzzle, each log fitting happily against the others. We swam and splashed and laughed in the water that was so clean and icy it made you feel like you were being reborn when you got out, and it ended up being one of those weekends that stands out as a treasured jewel that you revisit so often it becomes like a dream. The Adirondack chair I’d lazed away an afternoon in, reading, overlooking the lake, happened to be right next to this pile of wood. And it was sunny. And sometimes a red or orange or maroon maple leaf would flutter down and land on this sun-warmed puzzle of a woodpile, or onto my book, or onto the artistic layer accumulating on the grassy ground. This is what Elias smells like. That wood, and that sunny afternoon by that paradoxical lake, and those colorful leaves. And it suddenly feels like all my best memories are tied up with his scent.
He kisses me like I’m the air he’s been missing, capturing my mouth hungrily. Elias’s tongue slides against mine and a warm wave of lust floods my body, licking me like liquid flames.
If I thought he smelled good, his taste is something else altogether. Mint. Man elixir—I don’t freaking know what to call it. All I know is that the feverish, perfect taste of Elias O’Shea fires up a sweet obsession that digs into my soul.
He’s so big. So hot. My body is humming with his warmth.
As I know by now, in situations like this, with a rugged quarterback feeding his taste and his scent into my parched, partly-naive but fully alive body, I’m consumed by a need for more, craving him like a drug.
“Don’t run from me, Zara,” he growls. “Don’t fucking stonewall me.”
I blink up at him, mesmerized, like always, by how ridiculously good-looking he is. But a glance at the photo of his proud father on the wall behind him convinces my sane mind to make one last attempt to slow this down.
I step away from him—which takes every single one of my powers of resistance. “You wanted to talk, Elias, and so do I. Let’s talk.” It already feels like we’re in this, deeply. The reality is, we hardly know each other. I can jump into bed with him any minute—and probably will, who are we kidding. Before the night is over, odds are I’ll give him all the firsts he hasn’t already taken. But I don’t know the first thing about him, except that he’s good at football, he says nice things to me and he looks like he just flew down on his Pegasus from Mount Olympus.
He lays back on the bed, a burly arm crooked behind his head, which is propped up by pillows. His long legs are spread and his jeans are low on his hips, revealing that muscular V—my sister once called it an Adonis belt and now I know why—and the quilted eight-pack of his abs. Not to mention the gigantic straining ridge inside his jeans. I try not to stare, but it’s hard not to when it’s snaking thickly to one side. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
There’s nowhere to sit since the only chair is piled high with boxes and a football jersey with his number: 12. Probably the one he wore tonight.
I pick it up. I’m tempted to hold it to my face and take a deep breath.
“I want you to have that. If my lucky charm wears my lucky jersey, maybe it’ll help me win every game. I’ll wash it first.”
What I’m thinking is, I don’t want you to wash it. And it’s a good place to start. Holding his jersey, I walk over to the other side of the bed. I lean against the pillows, curling onto my side to face him. But I leave some distance between us. “You really want me to wear it?” I happen to know that athletes are some of the most superstitious people on the planet. So are their coaches.
“I already told you you’re my dream girl, that we’re destined to be together and that I haven’t been with anyone else for a long time. What do you want? A ring?”
I stare at him for a long moment. “What? You mean…”
“Marry me, if that’s the kind of assurance you want.”
“Very funny.”
His eyes are locked on mine. “I get it, it’s too soon. But here you go: I want you. I know we’re taking a risk, but to me it’s worth it, Zara. I know the situation is complicated. I know we’ll probably have to deal with the consequences of that at some point soon. I’m ready to. I don’t want to wait. The last thing I was expecting was for you to wander into my life and grab me by the fucking heart with both hands. And that’s exactly what you’ve done. I know it’s crazy. But I’m not letting you slip through my fingers because I didn’t try hard enough to keep you. I would regret that a hell of a lot more than taking a risk for you.”
“It’s a big risk,” I whisper. This room is full of reminders of all he has to lose.
“And we’re ready for that. I can’t be casual about this, Zara. My dream girl is real. When that happens, you don’t just let her go and know she’s wandering around out there for any asshole to look at and lust after. Don’t ask me to fucking do that. I can’t.”
He sounds like he means it. “Okay.”
“The only way I’ll be able to concentrate on football is if you’re with me. I need to know you’re okay. I need you safe at all times. I need you to be happy. And if you’re not, tell me so I can fix it.”
Okay, I’m curious. “How would you fix it?”
“Fix what?”
