Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

Tiff

I heard him in the bathroom.

I didn’t mean to, and certainly I didn’t realize who exactly he was talking to.

Not until he told my mom to have a fucking bowl of cereal.

Then…

The pieces had aligned.

And…

Christ, it’s only been a few days and I’m falling deep, falling hard.

I’m not a piece of steel.

I’m not impermeable.

And how can I resist this man?

Maybe I’ll end up heartbroken. Or maybe…this will all come together and make sense.

I don’t know.

I do know that I’m not going to fight it, fight this.

So, when he quietly sets my cell on the nightstand and carefully climbs into bed, I do what I wanted to do hours ago when I was sliding into bed next to him?—

I clamber on top of him and…

I kiss him.

He goes still for a second and my stomach squeezes as I wonder if I’ve made a serious mistake.

Thankfully, barely a heartbeat later, he moves.

One hand dives into my hair, the other slides down my back. The material of his T-shirt has ridden up, and he takes full advantage, his slightly rough palm settling flat on my back. The contact—so hard, so good —makes me gasp—another thing he takes advantage of, diving his tongue into my mouth, tangling it with mine. The kiss is hard and demanding, and for a second, I freeze, worried that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

But then his hand moves, dipping down beneath the waistband of my underwear, cupping my ass.

And that’s even better.

So good, it spurs me into action.

I meet the thrusts of his tongue, move my hips with the encouragement of that hand until I find it.

The rhythm my body seems to instinctively find.

The rhythm that sent me flying this morning.

I moan against his mouth, rocking faster, and?—

Suddenly, I’m on my back, the bedside lamp on, Jean-Michel poised over me.

My breath catches—the sight of him like this so intense that my head is spinning and my heart is beating so hard it feels as though it will gallop its way out of my chest.

The blankets are tangled around us and he jerks at them, freeing us before letting them drop behind him.

I hold my breath, waiting, unsure, wanting.

“Please, Jean-Mi,” I whisper.

Heat blazing through bright blue eyes.

But, finally, he moves.

Albeit, slowly. Carefully. Each movement precise and measured—as though he has to move deliberately, lest he lose control.

Or maybe that’s me.

“Smart,” he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Sweet.” My lips. “Kind.” My throat. “Funny.” My belly, where my shirt has rucked up. “Beautiful.” He draws the tee higher, slipping a hand behind me, coaxing me to lift up slightly so he can tug the fabric over my head.

Then I’m only wearing my underwear.

My stomach fills with butterflies.

My throat goes dry.

I’m still, certain of what I want, but entirely uncertain of what I should do to get it.

“Breathe, buttercup,” he orders.

It’s a command I can accept.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

He goes still, his lips a millimeter above my belly button. I can feel his hot breath on my skin, and his piercing blue eyes burn into mine. “You’ve touched yourself?” he asks.

For a second, I can’t process his words.

Then I do, and my cheeks flare with heat. I nod jerkily, and he shifts, coming up over me, his big body surrounding mine, his hand on my jaw, thumb running over my hot skin. “Don’t be embarrassed, okay baby?”

I nod again, his gentle voice making it less jerky.

“This is normal stuff. It’s okay to have questions, and to not know what you’re doing. I’ve done it a lot”—his mouth hitches up—“and sometimes I’m still don’t know what I’m doing.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “How?”

He grins. “Because I don’t know what you like, buttercup?—”

“Everything you’ve done so far.”

His grin widens. “That’s good to hear, baby. But”—he sobers, voice gentle again—“there are going to be things I do that you don’t like.” His eyes come to mine again and hold, the seriousness in the blue depths making my protest die on my lips. “Things that don’t do it for you or things that make you feel uncomfortable or things you just don’t want to do.” His thumb trails over my cheek again. “And all of those feelings are okay. But all of those things, you need to tell me.”

I nod.

“Promise me that, buttercup.”

“I promise to tell you if I feel any of those things.”

“Good, baby.” He brushes his lips over mine, shifts again, starts slowly making his way down my body. “And now for the most important part.” His tongue trails between my breasts, dips into my belly button, stops just above the waistband of my underwear.

“Wh-what’s the most important part?”

The glide of his tongue drifts lower, pauses, and he grins up at me again—though this time it’s wicked.

“You tell me everything you do like.”

“Jean-Mi,” I whisper.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, fingers gripping the band of my underwear, slowly drawing the material down my hips. “Lift up, baby.” A tug and I realize what he wants—me to raise my hips. I arch, and he slides my panties down, down?—

Pause.

All of me is almost exposed to him.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

I inhale, shore up my courage, and nod.

Warm blue eyes. Steady fingers.

He slips the material from my feet, tosses it aside.

And I’m completely naked.

My heart thuds, nerves threatening to get the better of me But before they can, he starts touching me, massaging the sole of one foot and then the other.

I groan, head dropping back onto the pillows as his magical fingers move higher, running over my calves, the backs of my knees, my thighs…and then higher on my thighs.

It’s not until he’s kneeling between my legs that I realize he’s managed to part them without me realizing, part them so I’m fully on display for him. I wait for my embarrassment to kick in, for the urge to slam my legs together to take over.

But…that doesn’t happen.

Maybe it’s the gentle way he’s touching me. Maybe it’s the patience in those blue eyes. Maybe it’s that with each slow stroke up and down along the insides of my thighs, he draws a little higher.

Or maybe it’s that he’s slowly bending, slowly lowering his head.

Nope.

It’s none of those.

Because the moment his mouth touches me?—

I’m not thinking of being exposed or vulnerable or embarrassed.

I’m… on fire.

He trails his tongue through my center, tracing it along my labia. It’s gentle and I jump at the intense sensation, but as soon as I settle, he increases the pressure, the speed, his hands coming to the tops of my thighs, holding me steady, his shoulders keeping my legs wide so he can devour me.

I moan softly when he hits a spot that feels more incredible than the rest.

“There?” he asks against me.

“Y-yes,” I rasp, hips lifting, searching out the purchase of his mouth.

But he’s in no hurry, just continues his slow and steady assault of me.

“Here?” he asks a moment later after my gasp has filled the air.

“Yes,” I breathe as he continues. “Oh, God,” I groan, hips jerking.

A flash of a wicked grin before his head dips back down. “Yeah, there, ” he murmurs against me.

Then there’s no more talking.

He focuses on all the glorious sensitive spots he’s found, and I can’t form words—or can’t form anything aside from “Oh, God!” and “Like that!” and “Please, oh God , Jean-Mi.”

His tongue is masterful, sliding through me, working in tandem with his lips and teeth.

He teases my labia, suckles at my clit, uses his fingers to dip inside me.

All together it’s better than anything my vibrator has ever given me.

And it doesn’t take long for me to feel it—to know it’s coming, pleasure coiling tight inside me, readying itself to explode.

“Jean-Mi,” I say, or maybe beg. My hands are in his hair, and I’m pushing myself against his mouth, seeking purchase, seeking more , seeking my orgasm that’s hovering close, just out of range.

Something he seems to sense because he grips my ass, increasing the friction, the pressure, the suction. Slipping that teasing finger further inside me. It slides in and out, in and out, in and?—

“Oh, God!” I moan, hips bucking, back arching.

“That’s it, buttercup,” he growls against me. “Let it come.”

“I—”

But I don’t finish.

Because he’s doubling down on his movements.

Teeth. Lips. Mouth. Fingers.

I can’t focus, can’t separate them, can’t do anything but?—

“ Jean-Mi!”

Come apart.