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And I swear I hear a low chuckle that makes my belly that’s all draped over his sculpted shoulders heat up.
Ugh.
How can he elicit so many different emotions in me?
And all in a matter of a few hours.
Can I please just go back to admiring him and pining for him from afar? Can Ipleasejust go back to when he wouldn’t look at me, let alone be in the same space as me?
This is not healthy.
This is making me feel things and do things that I never thought I was capable of.
Like the fact that in order to make it all difficult for him, I struggle against his hold. I tug and pull and flail my legs just so he’ll drop me in the snow.
And when he doesn’t, when instead of doing what I want, he tightens his hold around my thighs — actually he grips me in his large hand, his fingers digging and grasping hold of my thick thigh — I struggle all the more so he is forced to hold me so tightly, so freaking tightly, that his touch is seared into my flesh.
And who would’ve thought that I could do something like that.
That one second I could fight him to get away and the next, I fight him so I can stay close.
That one second I have every intention of running away the moment he puts me down, and when he does it — he puts me down right at the door of this cabin that he was speaking of — all I do is stand there, looking up at him with wide eyes.
“If you call yourself heavy again, I will carry you everywhere you go.” Then he bends down. “And next time you try to get me to drop you, I won’t let you go for days.”
With that he turns away from me, reaches up to the doorjamb and retrieves what I think is a spare key and opens the door.
CHAPTERFIVE
Riot Rivera has muscles for days.
I mean obviously.
He’s a pro soccer player; of course he has muscles for days.
And those muscles that he has are sculpted and lithe, compact and chiseled to the point of perfection. Sometimes when I catch a glimpse of them through his thin faded cotton t-shirts, it feels like they’re painted on him. That someone brush-stroked those arches of his pectorals and those tight curves of his biceps.
Someone very carefully drew those rolling hills of his shoulders.
And his ass.
God, his ass.
It’s tight like a drum.
One time he came home from practice early and I was in the kitchen, putting together a PBJ for Sophie. The moment he walked by, I had to stop slathering the grape jelly because I just couldn’t take my eyes off how his washed-out jeans clung to the curve of his butt. And the other time, when he bent down to play horsey with Sophie, giving her a ride on his back, I had to avert my eyes so I wouldn’t drool.
So yeah, I know.
I have first-hand knowledge of how muscular his body is.
Or so I thought.
Because I may have known about his muscles but I didn’t really appreciate them. I didn’t really appreciate the strength in them, the power, the sheer magnificence of them until tonight.
Until he carried me on his shoulders in a snowstorm, caveman style.
Me.
