He is the most ridiculous and charming man I’ve ever met. Still…he pulls me in like no other.
“But for reals.” He pinches my top and tugs. “Lose the shirt. Let me help heal what ails ya.”
I don’t move.
Not a muscle.
Not even to breathe.
If I do this, it could be the catalyst for something I can’t take back. I already feel like I may be in this too deep, but to cross the line into the physical would be an entirely different ball game. And yes, I know that’s a baseball metaphor, but whatever. My brain cells are currently having a heated debate with my hormones about the situation; I deserve a pass.
“Let me level the playing field.”
See? He did it too.
He reaches behind his head, pulling his t-shirt over it in that sexy one-handed way guys do that is the equivalent to us ladies removing our bra under our shirts. My brain cells lose the battle as my hormones give a standing ovation to the deserves-to-be-applauded perfection in front of me.
I gulp—audibly.
“Does this help?” He waves a hand down his body…his oh-my-god-I-need-to-check-my-chin-for-drool body.
No. No it does not help.
I know he did it so I wouldn’t feel the pressure of being the only one shirtless. Unfortunately, now all I want to do is fuse myself to him like cling wrap.
“Forgot your line, baby?” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, and says, “I’ll be happy to tell you what to say here.”
I suck in a stuttering breath. There is not one thing about him that doesn’t overwhelm me.
“Why do I get the feeling if I left the dialogue up to you, it wouldn’t be filled with actual words?”
“Oh…there would be words.”
One of his blond brows is arched, and there’s a devil-may-care smirk pulling up the right side of his mouth.
“There would be a yes, and an Oh Jase, take me now, and let’s not forget the ever-important Oh Jase, you are such a stud.” His smirk transforms into a full-blown smile so bright it takes my breath away, the green and gold of his eyes practically dancing.
“You are the most over-the-top person I have ever met, and I spend my days with actors.” I shake my head with a facepalm.
“You know you love it. Don’t play. Now come on.” He circles his finger. “Lose the shirt so I can introduce you to my magic fingers. Then maybe some other time you’ll get to meet my MD.”
“MD?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“My magic dick.”
Yup, I shouldn’t have asked.
“Oh my god.” I barely manage to get the words out I’m laughing so hard.
“You have the best laugh, baby.”
Swoon.
Needing the relief a good back rub—the real kind, not the kind with quotation marks men like to use for code to get to sexy times—I give in and remove my shirt, folding it and placing it on the coffee table.
Now he’s the one sucking in a breath with a hiss through his teeth. I peek at him through my lashes. His eyes turn a forest green, and he’s rolling his tongue ring across his upper lip.
I can’t recall ever seeing him do that. To be honest, unless he’s using it on me, I almost forget he has the piercing—almost.
I’m in another bralette, this one a cute baby pink color similar to the hue of my hair with a scalloped design on the edges. Aside from my pretty underthings, I’m dressed for comfort in a pair of simple black leggings.
“Fuck me,” he whisper-curses.
Yes please.
I’m quick to close the curtain on those thoughts, stupid hormones trying to take control again. You will not fuck the hot hockey hunk tonight. Your legs will stay closed. This show is not doing previews.
Easier said than done.
“Lie down.” His voice sounds as rough as the ice after a full period of hockey.
I do as he asks, bending my elbows, resting my face on my folded hands, shivers racking my body. They have nothing to do with the cold leather on my bare stomach and everything to do with anticipation.
“Let me know if I’m too heavy,” I hear him say before I feel him straddle the backs of my thighs. He doesn’t actually sit, his ass barely resting on my legs, the weight not at all uncomfortable.
His large calloused hands mold around my shoulders, his thumbs pressing in just the right spot to have me moaning in equal parts pleasure and pain.
He works on my potato-sized knots—damn him for making me always have spuds on the brain—dancing his fingers down the length of my spine, each vertebrae cracking.
That’s it—I’m quitting Broadway and Jase will have to leave the NHL because this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. His hands on me, all my aches and pains handled by his very accurately described magic fingers.
Up and down my back, he kneads away every knot that dares show itself in his presence.
When the long length of his fingers curve around the front of my ribcage, his thumbs smooth slow semicircles lower, occasionally dipping into the waistband of my leggings, brushing across the top of my thong, which is pink to match my bralette. I’m about to be literal putty in his hands.
The shifting of his weight is the only warning before his lips press a soft kiss between my now loose shoulder blades. The pressure of his lips is whisper-soft, only adding to the sensation.
The touch remains light as he follows the line of my spine.
Down to the band of my leggings.
Up to my shoulders.
The pressure finally increases on pass number two, but the lazy tempo does not.
All the while he continues to massage.
Pass number three is when he kicks it up a notch. That goddamn ring dances its way over each bump, my skin heating and goose bumps rising.
As he reaches the end of the line for the fourth time, his thumbs fully disappear beneath the band bisecting my back before hooking under the straps of my thong.
A fresh wave of desire hits, the heaviness of my breasts amplified as they push into the leather cushions.
As he makes his trek up my body, his thumbs remain locked on my underwear, pulling it along with him.
Fire flashes through my veins as the drenched lace tightens, trapping my engorged clit beneath it.
“Tell me to stop, baby.” His voice is dark with promise.
“I—” I swallow a sob. “I can’t.”
Another tug.
He shifts, blanketing my body while simultaneously holding himself above it. His chest burns my back, and the strength radiating from the thighs holding me in place is unparalleled.
“Jase,” I cry with another tug, the pressure pulling and pushing on my clit too much and not enough. I need…that’s it—I just need.
Another shift and he has the back of my thong in one hand, keeping a steady pressure, the lace setting off sparks as it drags against the rosebud of my ass, his free hand snaking around my hip and into the front of my pants.
I squirm, to run away or seek more, I’m not sure. Though he’s pinned me with his upper body, his lower half is held off me, preventing me from rubbing against him and returning the torture—err, pleasure.
Slowly, so fucking slowly there isn’t a doubt in my mind he knows exactly what he is doing to me, one—just one—of his fingers traces me from the top of my slit to the bottom, increasing the already maddening pressure tenfold.