Page 56 of Center Ice
“Like what you see?” There’s amusement in his voice, so I look back up at him.
“Eh.” I shrug as I lower my arms and let the dress fall off my shoulders and down my arms, then I slide it over my hips and let it pool at my feet. “I guess it’ll be sufficient.”
He gives me a full-out smile. “Oh princess, this is going to be so much more than sufficient.”
“We’ll see.” I wink so he knows I’m teasing, but it’s possible he misses the gesture as he tears his Rebels hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one movement. His body is a chiseled work of perfection, and I try not to be self-conscious about my own body as I look at his.
He’s an athlete. It’s his job to be in the best shape he possibly can be. I’m a mom who hardly has time to take care of my own basic needs, much less spend the time it would take to get back into shape. Unless you count my weekly pole dancing class, which has definitely helped.
He reaches out and takes my chin in his hand, tilting my head back and locking his eyes on mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“That thing where you look at my body and then think yours is anything less than perfect.”
“Are you a fucking mind reader?” I try to laugh it off.
“Your face said it all.”
“Drew, you could have any girl you want and most of them would have much better bodies than mine. So you’re just going to have to accept that I’m a little insecure about this.”
“I’m not, actually, going to have to accept that. Because you’re perfect exactly how you are, and like I told you on the phone, I haven’t so much as looked at another woman since I saw you again. Nor do I plan on looking at another woman any time in the future.” He tightens his grip on my chin when I try to look away, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Take my pants off.”
“W-what?” I fumble the word.
“Take my pants off. I want you to see for yourself what you do to me.”
I glance down at his sweats, and I can see exactly what I do to him. When I hook my thumbs in the waistband, Drew lets out a breath that sounds more like a hiss. I glance up at him, and he just raises his eyebrows like he’s challenging me.
“What if I don’t want to take your pants off?”
“Then we can stop this right here. We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable. In fact, I don’twantto do this if you’re not comfortable. But I love the way your body looks, and I want you to love it too.”
“You can’t make me love my body, Drew,” I tell him. “My feelings and opinions about it are my own.”
“True, but I can tell you what I love about it,” he says, reaching out to cup my breasts in his hands. My nipples strain against the sheer fabric, and a moan rips from the back of mythroat when he sweeps his thumbs across them. “I love the way your body is eager for mine. I love your absolutely perfect rack.” He slides his hands down so his palms skim across my stomach as his fingertips grip the edge of my back possessively. “I love how soft your skin is, how your waist nips in here, but how your hips and ass are curvy in all the right ways. Men literally write songs about women with asses like yours.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about—my hips and ass are not proportional to the rest of my body.
He drops down to his knees, running his fingertips down the length of my legs. “I love how strong your legs are. Why are your muscles so defined in your legs?” He trails his fingertips along the back of my legs, tracing the edges of my calf muscles.
“I dance once a week.” I obviously don’t think before saying this.
“What kind of dancing?” he asks, looking up at me, and I can feel the heat creeping from my chest up my neck.
“Oh, you know,” I say, rolling my eyes and brushing off the question.
He stands quickly, stepping close enough that my breasts brush his chest. “No, I don’t know. But you seem embarrassed that I asked, which has me even more curious.”
I press my lips between my teeth, cursing myself for not just saying I was taking a ballet or a jazz class. Now I can’t backtrack to one of those answers or he’ll know I’m lying.
“Never mind about the dance classes, Drew,” I say, and hook my thumbs back into the waist of his sweatpants, hoping I can distract him by taking his clothes off.
Instead, he presses each of his hands over mine. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s embarrassing. Please, drop it.”
“I have a feeling that whatever you think is embarrassing, I’ll think is insanely hot. So you should probably test that theory out and see if I’m right.”
