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I sent him a determined look to make him understand I wasn’t kidding. “I’m a neat-freak athlete who knows how to remove a stain.”
He shook his head. “I’m not rolling in the grass with you.”
“There’s a surprise.” I hid my cheeky smirk behind the glass.
“Ha-ha. You think I couldn’t fight back, huh? Because I could. I’ve been working out for years, Jordan. And even if you could take me down, I’d make you work for it.” He threw his head back and poured the rest of the wine down his throat.
I matched his gesture, then got up. “Go on.”
He huffed. “This is a new shirt.”
I reached to unbutton mine. “It won’t run away if you leave it on the chair.”
He looked at me with glassy eyes and pink cheeks. “Are you serious?” His voice was airy all of a sudden as I pulled the hem of my shirt out of my pants and shrugged it all off. I threw mine on the chair. “You are. You’re fucking serious.”
“Afraid?” I teased. Stop this. Stop this right now. But I was past listening to the voice of reason. My conscience had never done me any good. It wasn’t like there was something wrong with this. Guys wrestled. It was a thing that happened. Right? Yes.
My prodding angered Asher enough to jump up on his feet and yank his pretty shirt out of his pants, then undo the buttons from the middle of his torso down. He threw it off his body and over the chair, then marched onto the lawn after me. “This is ridiculous, Jordan.”
I cracked a grin. The level of excitement I felt was the only ridiculous thing around here. His bare torso was kissed by the moonlight. My chest felt tight and my palms slick, but I wasn’t quitting now. “You’re so gonna lose,” I growled, the amusement in my voice unmistakeable.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he warned me in a distant, soft voice. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. His chest was rising and falling with each deep breath he drew and released.
He tensed as I leaned forward. The grass was soft under my socks. Luckily I was fucking drunk because this would have been my nightmare in a sober state. He was right to worry about the stains, but I couldn’t make myself care right now. I had the chance to hold him and a big excuse to cover up the desperate longing that drove me to this.
Asher clamped his teeth around his lower lip and worked his anger to a blazing level. I’d seen him do that before games. It made him a force on the ice. But I wasn’t afraid.
What happened next wasn’t planned. No rules of a fair fight bound us. We took off like we were in a race, arms outstretched and all the force in our legs propelling us forward. When our chests clashed, I wrapped my big arms around his significantly lither frame, trapping his arms almost effortlessly in a heartbeat.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his head trapped in the nook of my neck. He wrapped his arms around my torso and held his ground firmly. To feel his heated hands on my back was something out of a dream. His muscled chest on mine, his tensing abs against my stomach, and the light sweat that couldn’t dry in this humidity made my brain spin.
Asher growled and grunted. He cursed and jerked. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t break free of my hold. My arms locked around him, but his heels dug into the lawn and wouldn’t give an inch. However hard I swayed him, he wasn’t falling.
Somehow, Asher managed to lift his right leg and toss it behind my left, kicking his heel into the tendons behind my knee and making me trip. I lost my balance, but I didn’t lose my grip. In the next instant, I knew I should have released him. But it was too late. We tumbled down to the ground and Asher collapsed over me. He couldn’t support my weight no matter how strong he thought he was. He fell over me with a smug grin on his face, his crotch smashing against mine in the process and kicking a grunt out of me.
But he was celebrating too quickly. I thrashed and twisted, rolling to my side and carrying Asher with me. The cackle of glory he was just letting out turned into a curse and a growl of despair. I pinned him down, although he didn’t make it easy. His legs flailed, and he tried lifting his hips to prolong the fight, but he only ground his body against mine, writhing under me, rubbing his hot torso against mine, and gasping for air. I managed to trap his legs under mine, practically sitting on his thighs, and lifted my torso away from him. It pained me to break the contact I had craved for so long, but I was on the verge of victory. I yanked his arms up and crossed his wrists, pinning them down with one hand far above his head. He jerked again, but he could do nothing.
“Submit, Asher,” I demanded.
“No,” he gasped. He twisted his hips but failed to make any significant room for maneuvering.
“Submit,” I insisted, bringing my face closer to his.
Wine was present on his sweet breath when he huffed, “Stop fucking saying that.”
“Why?” I asked. I dug my fingers into his ribcage and made him coil and yelp.
“Not fair,” he cried. “You’re tickling me.”
“Why?” I asked again. “Submit. Go on.”
“Stop saying that word,” he spat angrily.
“Why?” I laughed at how useless his movements were all the while fearing closer contact. He couldn’t imagine the things this was doing to me and I was determined to leave it only in my imagination.
“Because it’s fucking turning me on!” The words were like bell chimes. They rang hollowly through my head. My mouth dried and I froze for a long moment, gazing into his eyes. He was breathing hurriedly, chest rising and falling and rising and falling. The air hissed through his clenched teeth. Sparks of hatred blazed in his eyes. His lips were wet, pulled over his teeth to bare them, red like the most delicious, ripe apples I’d ever seen. Or like blood.
I released him and pulled back. My heart was beating faster than if I’d played three periods on the ice without a break. I scrambled to my feet and turned away from him. Panic clamped around my heart, making it hard to breathe. It was like a steel claw had grabbed my torso and tried to crush me.
