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A nervous giggle escapes me and I almost groan, hating how nervous it makes me appear, how young I must sound, too. Even though I’m technically only four years younger, somehow in this moment the age gap between us makes him feel worlds away. This man is a professional football player—he deals with screaming fans and multimillion-dollar contracts and agents and the media. He’s already seen and done things I couldn’t dream of accomplishing.
He has a real career. With real responsibilities.
I work for my dumb parents.
It makes me feel like a child. What have I even done? I’ve accomplished nothing but graduating twice. Earning degrees, but so what?
I giggle again, trying to focus on that pink, waiting tongue sticking out of his mouth, careful not to touch it when I gingerly set the baked pumpkin seed on top.
He closes his mouth before I can remove my fingers.
Oh god.
Oh lord.
Warm, wet lips graze the tips before he begins slowly chewing. A groan.
“Good stuff.” Simple words and yet—his eyes are like fire, sparks crackling when he looks at me.
Stop being so scared, Chandler. You can toss this man on his ass—you’ve already done it twice.
“Did you like that?” The words leave my mouth before I’ve thought them all the way through, sounding sexy and raspy and way out of my level of expertise.
My level? Ground zero.
Hello, what are you doing? The man wants to eat you alive!
If I thought I was surprised by my own choice of words, that’s nothing compared to the look of surprise on Tripp’s own face, eyes wide with disbelief.
It emboldens me.
Throwing back my shoulders, I tilt my chin up. “Want another taste?”
“Are we still talking about pumpkin seeds?” he asks, so hesitantly it almost makes me laugh.
Seems I’m not the only insecure one here—who would have thought? Not me, not in a million years, but here we are.
“Do you want to still be talking about pumpkin seeds?” The question sounds cockier than I feel. Where is this bravado coming from? Jeez, Chandler—don’t write any checks your ass can’t cash!
“No.”
I bend, using the hot pad to remove the cookie sheet from the oven, turn it off, and close the oven door. Leaning against the counter, I watch Tripp watching me, knowing the expression on my face is one of satisfaction.
He’s not sure what to do with me.
Is he…intimidated by me?
Little me?
Huh.
Your move, Chandler. Big, bad Tripp Wallace is suddenly as timid as a mouse.
I look at his lips. Down at Chewy, snoozing comfortably nearby. Up into his eyes.
They’re watching me cautiously, as if he’s waiting for me to reject him. As if he wishes I’d put him out of his misery so he could laugh it off and continue with the monumental task of the carving.
I put one hand to his chest, where his heart is beating, and slide it up, over his shoulder. Tripp is solid and warm, a fortress that wants breaching.
Breaching?
Stop it right now, ew.
His breath catches when my fingers nick the bottom of his earlobe and I’d wager that they’re an erogenous zone. Make a mental note of it, just in case.
“You’re so handsome,” I tell him, knowing he’s heard it dozens of times and doesn’t need his ego inflated. He can barely fit his head through the door as it is, but for some reason, he needs to hear it from me.
For some reason, I think maybe he sees me…differently than the others?
My palm grazes the stubble on his neck on its way toward the smooth skin of his cheek. Tripp tilts his head a little, leaning in toward it. Nuzzling, his lips find the pulse in my wrist and kiss it.
I shiver.
Reach up on my tiptoes to close the space. Rest my mouth on his, marveling at how soft and warm it is. How full and sexy it feels being this close to him.
Tripp’s arms go around me, hands bracing my backside, sliding down to my ass—not grabbing it but gripping, holding me up so I don’t falter given our height difference. I’m not wearing heels and can barely reach his lips.
After a while, he squats to give me better access to his face, back against the counter, legs spread, pulling me over.
“Much better,” I whisper, fingers combing through his dark hair and lavishing kisses along his jawline.
His hands have a firm hold on my hips, flirting with the hemline of my top. Tugging it. Toying with it. A deliberate dodge and weave, not quite committing to going up and under.
In response, my breasts begin to ache, so close to the largest set of palms they’ve ever been privy to, curiosity almost unbearable.
My boobs are as needy as I am; arching my back, I press into Tripp, rubbing against him like a cat in heat. The only thing missing is my purr.
Touch them, touch them, touch them!
