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I’m not sure how to answer this question without sounding too losery. “I don’t run it, I just participate. Mostly it’s an excuse to drink wine and eat junk food while discussing smutty books. We don’t typically read sixteenth century literature, but we had a real smut run for the last few months. This chick Lydia was getting tired of reading the word moist, so she picked Fielding. It’s a little extreme.”
Alex shudders. “Understandable, really. Moist is a terrible word.”
“So true. It should only be used to describe the consistency of cake.”
“Agreed.” Alex laughs, his pretty smile lingering. He twirls my hair between his fingers. “So did you study English in college?”
“Not as a major. I took a few courses for fun. What about you?” My mouth is dry and every part of me is hot. I take a sip of my grapefruit drink.
“I double majored in English Lit and Kinesiology during my first year. I had to drop the kin after I was drafted. I was a little late getting picked up.”
He double majored. My Spidey jammies are at risk of peeling themselves off my body. “When were you drafted?”
“The middle of my first year.”
“And you still finished your degree?”
“It took a little longer than usual, but yeah. I’d still like to finish the kin degree at some point, but that’ll have to wait. So you’re not into lit fic, eh?”
He’s using cute Canadianisms. I’m getting all flushed below the waist and above the neck. “I’m good with literary. I’ve read Tolstoy and Austen and liked them, but Fielding’s a pretty vast change from straight up word porn.”
I get another laugh, and his fingers drift down the side of my neck. “He saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”
Oh God. He’s quoting Tolstoy and touching me. I’m done for.
When you’re surrounded by sports-minded men whose reading repertoire doesn’t expand beyond The Hockey News or the sports section in the newspaper, it’s hard not to get all starry-eyed about a guy who reads books without pictures.
One second he’s talking, the next my face is glued to his. His glass clinks on the table, and then his hands are on me, under my shirt, gripping my waist and burning against my already heated skin.
“I was really hoping for some more mouth fucking,” Alex says against my lips.
I giggle, and then moan. Oh hell, do I moan. It’s been a while since I’ve been touched by a member of the opposite sex. By a while, I mean it’s been the drought of the ages for the past six months. I’m going to explode out of my skin from the contact.
I skim his jaw with my fingers and thread them into his hair. It’s soft, reminding me of those shampoo commercials, where attractive men gush about their super awesome hair.
I press closer, but it’s not enough, so I straddle his lap. This is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. His probable hockey-whore status ceases to matter as I settle over the straining bulge in his pants.
Alex’s fingertips glide back and forth under the waistband, which rides precariously low. My focus lies on the feel of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his mouth on mine.
He breaks the kiss, and his lips travel along my jaw, warm and wet on my skin. “Is this okay?” he asks, inching his hands into the back of my pants.
“Uh-huh.”
He grabs the swell of my ass, squeezing gently. “And this?”
I mmm rather than use words on the not-so-off chance I might say something to ruin the moment. His full bottom lip begs for attention, so I give it a nibble and a suck. We kiss for a long while, grinding all up on each other, his hands in my pants, my fingers in his hair.
He pulls my body closer, shifting his hips at the same time. “What about this?”
And there it is—the friction I’ve been looking for. It feels so good. So much better than my own fingers because it’s a big damn dick and all I have to do is shift against it. “Fuck me.” The words come out on a breathy-groan.
I freeze. I’m so pucked. There’d better be a support group for hockey hookers.
I’m going to need it after tonight.VIOLETAlex releases his grip on my ass and regards me with soft, warm eyes. “I was serious when I said I don’t have any expectations, okay?” Despite his relaxed posture and his reassurance, his voice is raspy—distilled sex over crushed ice.
Is this what he says to all the puck bunnies? If it is, I understand why it works. “Okay.”
I decide if we stay here on the sofa, there’s less risk of me getting completely naked. The notion is bereft of logic. The first time I had sex was on a couch, so the prospect that this is less dangerous than say, oh, a very large, comfortable bed, is ludicrous. I’m going with it anyway.
