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Or rather, both of us do in a mess of limbs and groans and awkward touches.
More accurately, inappropriate touches.
Holy Jesus.
Please tell me I didn’t just brush my fingers against his thing right now.
I quickly remove my hand while he’s trying to get off me, and that knocks us both down again.
But this time, he’s glued to me. His cut body covering my entire front and his naked chest on my breasts. Now, I’m definitely touching his thing—or my stomach is, anyway.
My cheeks would be flaming red if my emotions appeared on the surface. I never thought I’d feel the ridges of his body this intimately.
At least, not in this lifetime.
Jesus. His abdomen is as firm as the ground against my back, only it’s soft enough to sleep on.
Or rub my face against it.
Or any other activity that includes touching it.
He plants his palms on the ground on either side of my head and pushes up a little. His stomach, thighs, and umm, his erection, are still pressed against me.
That’s when I have my first full view of him.
Sebastian Weaver.
Star quarterback.
A former senator’s grandson.
And dangerous.
It’s not only because of his lethally attractive looks, because honestly? He could be the most beautiful man God has created. Okay, in the top five.
His face may as well have been sculpted from granite, all rough edges and with predefined expressions. Not in a serial killer kind of way, but in a ‘hello, I’m your next fantasy’ kind of way. His cut jawline and sharp nose add to the general perfection that God bestows upon only some of his creations.
His eyes, though, tell a completely different story. It’s not solely about their light green color that resembles the shade of a tropical sea that I’ve only seen in pictures. But what’s most striking about them is the fading light in their depths, almost as if he’s mad with the supremacy he was given. Or maybe he considers it a burden.
Gee, if having his looks is a burden, we can switch.
Or not.
That would make me a guy and I’d have to carry the cheer squad.
Okay, wait. Am I really thinking about carrying the cheerleaders when I’m trapped under Sebastian’s body?
A very hard one at that. No, I don’t mean his dick is hard, though I think it’s getting there, but all of him, from his chest to his thighs and even his whole face.
His dark sandy-blond hair falls across his forehead, creating a dreamy contrast against his
sun-kissed skin and the light color of his eyes. Eyes that are currently narrowing at me as if I committed a mistake by merely existing.
“Move,” he says in that slightly raspy voice of his, one that’s meant to whisper dirty things in the dark.
Or maybe in the light. Who cares?
“What?”
