Page 47 of Playing Her Game

“In your opinion.”

“Either way, I'm glad you're stuck with me a little longer.”

“And your luxurious Airbnb.”

“Fancy,” he says.

His easy delivery makes me laugh more genuinely than I have since leaving Brooklyn.

I shake my head, conceding defeat, then move behind him and give him a playful hip check. “Go have a seat while I attempt to cook a meal we can semi-enjoy.”

“Gonna need something first.”

His words draw my attention from the reusable grocery bags to his face. His tongue passes over his lips, and the look in his eyes makes the question clear without another word.

My answer is barely a breath, but he hears it. He closes the distance between us, his hands settling on my hips and drawing me against him. The neediness in his tightening fingers sends warmth spreading through me.

For a moment, I remember the groceries, the snow outside, my unstyled hair twisted into a messy bun. I remember that I should be preparing dinner, or at least pretending to. Then his mouth hovers just shy of mine, and those sensible thoughts scatter.

I was afraid daylight would expose all the vulnerabilities that darkness had hidden last night. Standing here in the soft winter light, wearing his oversized sweatshirt while my own clothes dry, I feel more exposed than I did then. I hadn't bothered doing laundry in Brooklyn, intending to leave it for the staff when I returned home. Now I'm standing in a man's kitchen wearing his clothes and wanting him to kiss me.

I meet his gaze, allowing the risk to be outweighed by the possibility of something good. I expect a smirk or a clever line, but instead I see the faint tension in his expression, as if he's holding back more than he's willing to admit.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

I nod.

He kisses me, and this time there's no uncertainty about whether daylight will change anything. The kiss is hungrier than last night's, but he still gives me room to pull away. When I don't, his hands tighten at my hips, and the restraint between us begins to unravel.

I taste the cold on him, clean and sharp against the heat building between us. The kitchen island presses against my hip. I barely notice. I want him to leave marks, not as souvenirs but as proof that this moment belongs to me, something solid to hold against all the fragile, fleeting things in my life.

His hands slip beneath the sweatshirt, palms warm against my bare skin. He draws me closer, his touch deliberate enough to make my breath catch.

A startled laugh escapes me when he lifts me onto the counter. He grins, wolfishly, and steps between my knees, kissing my jaw before moving to the hollow of my throat. Each kiss dissolves another scrap of hesitation.

“You are so...” He stops, as if the word has caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth. Instead, he presses his lips to my neck, his teeth grazing lightly before he draws back to look at me.

His hand moves beneath the sweatshirt, and he groans when his palm cups my breast, finding nothing between the fabric and my skin. My nipples are already painfully hard. His thumb circles one, and my breath catches. I push into his touch, my fingers tightening around his arm.

“Christ,” he breathes, watching my face as he does it again.

He pushes the sweatshirt higher and lowers his head. His mouth closes over my nipple, his tongue warm against my skin. I arch into him, fingers threading into the hair at his nape to hold him there. When I make a sound I hadn't intended to, his attention sharpens, his teeth grazing just enough to make my thighs tighten around his hips.

His hands settle firmly on my waist, drawing me toward him until there's no mistaking how much he wants this. His fingers trail down my stomach, pausing at my waistband.

Again, he doesn't ask aloud, but he gives me space to answer, and I lift my hips toward him, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“Fuck yes,” he murmurs against my hair.

My hands grip his shoulders. I want him. I want what he's offering, and I'm curious about what he keeps hidden behind those storm-lit eyes. But I don't want to interrupt the moment by trying to name any of it.

He studies my face for another heartbeat, searching for doubt. When he finds none, his restraint finally gives way.

He kisses me again, harder this time, stealing the breath from my chest. I clutch his shirt, pulling him closer, and he meets my urgency. There's nothing polished about it. It's greedy and a little clumsy, which makes it perfect.

He lifts me just enough to pull down the black thermal long underwear pants I’m wearing as leggings. I pull one leg out with a swiftness that even I am impressed by. The cold granite against my exposed skin sends a shiver through me, making my nipples harden further.

I want to laugh at the absurdity of my bare ass on the counter where I’m supposed to be cooking my very gracious host dinner. I also want to taste him, to bite him, pull him closer, so he’s inside me. I want it all at once.