Page 13 of Trick Play
She mumbles something.
“What was that?”
Her cheeks are pink, and when she draws in a deep bracing breath, her tits almost touch my chest. “Please kiss me,” she says quietly, but clearly, each word perfectly enunciated.
“It would be my pleasure.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Piper
I try. I really, really try to resist. To remain stiff and unresponsive. But when he brushes his soft lips across mine in a tentative graze, the gesture more question than demand, my resolve starts to crumble.
He pulls back and looks at me, his blue eyes going dark, and his hand cups my jaw, tipping my face up at a better angle, and this time when his lips touch mine, it’s less question, and more command. And despite my innate contrariness that makes me resist commands, my desire to resist him chips away with each press of his soft, warm lips against mine.
When he parts his lips, taking mine with them, I’m lost.
Why was I so hellbent on resisting this again? To get out of going on a date with him? And why was that a bad idea? He kisses me like he knows all the secret ways to bring me pleasure. Going on a date seems like a really good plan, actually.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, seeking out mine. And I give him exactly what he’s looking for, unable to resist anymore.
He crowds me back against the counter, his hand leaving my jaw, sliding down my back to cup my ass, his hand hot and firm through the thin fabric of my leggings. His thigh nudges between my legs, other hand flexing on my hip, urging me to rub against him. And I do. God help me, I do.
When he pulls back—which happens far sooner than I’m ready for, dammit—his chest is heaving, and it’s clear he’s just as affected as I am. He rubs his nose on my cheek, nips at my earlobe, and whispers, “Let’s go.”
Releasing my grip on his hair and shoulder, I slide my hands to his chest and push back enough so I can look him in the eye. “Go where?”
He lets out a groan, harsh and tortured. “Anywhere. Your place, my place, hell, a bedroom here. I don’t care. Let’s justgo.”
Before I can answer, he claims my lips again. No soft, questioning prelude this time. Just masterful dominance, his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my ass, his taste, his scent, his body, completely surrounding me. Overwhelming me.
He pulls me away from the counter, ending the kiss with the clear goal of taking me somewhere, his fingers tangling with mine.
But I stop, rooted to the spot. “I can’t.” The words are barely more than a hoarse whisper.
He freezes, every line in his body pulled tight, like a bow ready to release an arrow. “Why not?” All that cocky arrogance is gone, wiped away by that kiss along with my better judgment.
I gesture weakly toward the living room. “I’m still in the tournament.”
“Forfeit.” That arrogance comes back into his voice, sparking my will to resist.
“No.”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I lift my chin. Shaking his head, he reels himself back to me by our connected hands, his free hand sliding behind my back, holding me close. “Fine. We’ll stay until you lose, and then we’ll finish this somewhere else.”
It takes everything in me to shake my head—because finishing what we just started somewhere else sounds like a fantastic idea right now—but I manage to. “Can’t. Homework.” He’s reduced me to single words. I can’t even string together simple sentences right now, likeI can’t. I have homework.
He sucks in a breath, his nostril flaring, and his firm chest pressing against mine. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his lips are pressed in a flat line. He’s annoyed at my resistance, which he clearly thought was a thing of the past. “You have homework all night?”
I jerk my head in a quick nod. “Yeah. Lots of classes. Lots of homework.”
His eyes narrow. “You owe me a date.”
My breath leaves me on a sigh. “I know. But I can’t tonight. I still have lots of reading to finish.”
“Tomorrow, then.” It’s not so much a request as a demand. But …
“I can’t tomorrow either.”
