Page 99 of Body Check

thirty-six

. . .

Amelia

The super romantic moment I envisioned? The one where Jason carries me across the threshold of his apartment and then ravages me?

Kind of foiled by his crutches.

After the game is over, we drive home together. There’s no question about where I want to be tonight. I punch the code into the lock, and then hold the door open for him, even though it’s his place. Kicking off my shoes, I drop my backpack beside the console table—where it belongs—and all but run to the bedroom.

He takes a bit longer to get there, but when he crosses into his bedroom, I’m already wiggling out of my jeans, my shirt discarded.

Jason launches himself at the bed, landing half on top of me. I erupt into giggles, winding my arms around his neck, and pulling him onto me fully.

“Hi,” he whispers, before he kisses me.

I moan into the kiss, one of my hands tangling in his hair. The other slides down his spine to his ass, grabbing hold. Hockey butts are fucking fantastic, round and muscular. I want to bite it.

The kiss is as electric as ever. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of him, or the way he tastes, the way he devours me, like I’m his last meal.

He wore a suit to the game—all the players have to, even if they’re injured or a healthy scratch—and discarded the jacket as soon as we walked in the door. I like the look of him in a suit. I like it even better when the suit is crumpled on the floor.

My hands move to his buttons, slowly slipping each one free. Halfway down, he gets impatient and yanks, sending little black plastic circles flying. His hips pin me to the bed as he shrugs out of his shirt, throwing it somewhere behind him.

We haven’t had sex since his injury. The few times I tried to initiate, he wasn’t in the mood, and since things were tense lately…

“Need you,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I slip a hand between us, trying to get to his belt buckle. But his hand covers mine, squeezing my fingers.

Pulling back, I try to catch my breath. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”

He blinks a few times, and then rises onto his knees.

And immediately winces. He collapses onto his side, grabbing at his shin.

“Yeah. About that,” I tell him. “I thought about this a bit, and I think I need to ride you.”

“Oh?” A cocky smirk curves across his lips. “You have to, huh?”

“To avoid hurting you more. I think it will be the best position.”

Some of the smugness leaves his face. “Oh.”

“This way, we both get what we want,” I add. “Anything with you on top will set your recovery back. And I’d like you to recover, please.”

“Me, too,” he says quietly. Seriously. “Whatever you want, Meels.”

“Okay.” I clap my hands. “Then, pants off.”

“You first,” he says. Reaching for me, he snaps the elastic of my plain cotton panties. “Off, please.”

“But—”

“You’re going to ride me,” he says. “Sit on my face and ride me, baby.”

Oh, he doesn’t have to ask me twice.