Page 51 of Legacy Elite

His hands work down my back and across, and I stop tracking the conversation, and then I stop tracking anything at all. Nobody's evaluating me. Nobody's writing on a board. Somewhere past my shoulder blades my brain just puts itself down.

Then his hands change.

Not a lot. Same muscle, same slow pressure, but his palms start staying longer than they need to, and when they come back up my sides his thumbs drag under the hem of my shirt against bare skin.

I turn over.

He's got one knee on the bed and his sleeves shoved up over his forearms, and his hair's still damp from his own shower, and there's a look on his face — the exact one he gets when he's caught and isn't remotely sorry about it.

I take a second, because I'm allowed.

He's big through the chest and shoulders in a way that has nothing to do with a gym, and right now the lamp is highlighting the line of his throat and I want to kiss that spot so badly.

"Torres."

"Yeah?"

I pull him down.

He comes so fast we knock heads.

He kisses me hard. His hand slides straight up under my shirt and mine go into his hair. He gets my shirt off. I get his over his head and throw it away and I put my hands flat on his chest because I love the warm heavy weight of him.

"Shut up."

"You were making noises."

"I'm going to make a different noise in a—"

He gets his mouth on my breast and I make a different noise.

We lose our clothes fast. My shorts end up somewhere behind the headboard. His jeans get as far as his knees and stay there for an embarrassing length of time while neither of us cares, because I've got my hand around him and he's got two fingers in me.

He's so hard it makes me feel unhinged. He drops his forehead onto my shoulder and swears against my skin and his hips push into my hand, and I feel the whole of it come back at me through the bond — his, mine, indistinguishable — and my back comes off the bed.

"Torres—"

"Yeah."

"Torres."

"I know."

He curls his fingers and kisses me and I nearly go off right there, and then he stops.

"Don't you dare—"

"I'm not, I'm—" he's laughing, he's actually laughing "—Jess, my jeans."

"Take them off!"

"That's what I'm doing!"

He gets them off. It is not graceful. He comes back up over me and I hook my leg around him and pull, and then something along my ribs seizes up and I make an entirely different sound.

He stops dead. "What?"

"Rib."