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

Chapter 34

Thirty-Four

Jean-Michel

Her face—fuck, I know that I will never stop doing everything I can to see her face like this.

“You did this?” she asks, her expression transforming from surprised to warm to soft.

“Our last dinner plans were hijacked by Rory and Chrissy,” I say by way of explanation.

“So,” she whispers. “You did this?”

I shrug. “All I did was make a couple of calls. The staff did me a favor.”

I guide her to the blanket, sit down beside her.

“This is your clearing,” she whispers.

She remembers. Of course she does.

“Yeah, baby, this is my clearing.” I nuzzle her throat. “And the reason I bought this place.” I nod toward the creek that lazily flows down the hill. “The water. The trees. The view.” Now I nod out at the valley, Oak Ridge’s vines green against the gently sloping hills. “It felt like home.”

“Did you grow up here?”

I shake my head. “No, Canada.” Then I laugh when she turns to me, mouth falling open. “Played hockey growing up. Never even drank a glass of wine till I blew out my knee, couldn’t play anymore, and a cute puck bunny offered to share a bottle with me to drown out my troubles.”

“Well, that explains the hockey connection.” Her voice is light, but there’s a thread of possessiveness in her next words that I can’t deny liking. “What’s the puck bunny’s name?”

I grin, smooth my fingers over her cheek. “You want her address and social security number too?”

“Can you get it?”

My grin widens. “Of course I can.” I brush my lips over hers. “Though, I’d have to remember her name first.”

A lush mouth dropping open. “You don’t remember her name?”

“Nope.”

“Poor thing.” But I don’t miss that she sounds pleased.

“I thought you were jealous,” I tease lightly.

“Jealous?” She shakes her head, affecting innocence. “What’s there to be jealous about?”

I chuckle, tug a strand of her hair. “So says the woman who bit my head off in her parent’s kitchen?—”

“As previously mentioned, you were overstepping by about a mile.”

“And also the woman who is demanding names and identifying information about a woman from my past,” I go on without missing a beat.

She swats me across the chest. “I was teasing.”

I snag her hand, roll over the top of her. “Was not.”

“Was”—she flips me in a move I don’t see coming—“ too .”

I blink at her, shock coursing through me. “Where’d you learn those moves, buttercup?”

“Stefan made sure I had some self-defense training.”

Yeah, I don’t fucking like that.

“Did he give you that training?”

She grins, stroking a hand down my front that has my dick going hard in an instant. “Now who’s jealous?” She bends and brushes her mouth over mine. “And no,” she murmurs. “Stefan recommended a woman named, Mia. She’s married to a Gold player and runs a karate studio. She taught me that little trick.”

“What other little tricks has she taught you?”

Her smile—fuck, it’s beautiful and sweet and the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

I flip us again. “Really?” I ask, dropping my lips to hers, tasting that smile.

Her leg wraps around my waist, and in a move that’s far faster than I expect, I’m on my back again. “Really, really,” she murmurs, her mouth coming to mine. Then drawing it lower—to my jaw, my throat where she pauses, undoing the top button of my shirt.

“Baby,” I warn.

“Shh,” she says softly. “You’ve gotten to touch me, but I haven’t gotten to touch you yet. Let me?”

I exhale.

Then—because I can’t deny her anything—I resist the urge to reverse our positions again. Instead, I settle back, tuck my arms behind me head, and say, “Touch away, buttercup.”

Light in her eyes.

Warmth on her face.

And wickedness in her smile.

“I like this,” she murmurs, running her fingertips through the stubble on my cheeks and jaw that I haven’t gotten around to shaving off yet.

“It has its purposes,” I agree.

Mostly because she likes it rubbing along the insides of her thighs.

She grins, and I know she’s thinking what I’m thinking, remembering what I’m remembering. “Maybe it does.”

“Do I need to demonstrate that again, baby?”

Pink on her cheeks, her hips shifting restlessly. “I’m the one who’s touching, remember?”

“You are?” I say. “Because I’m not feeling much touching happening, buttercup.”

“Hmm.” It’s a soft sound, but it’s one that tells me I’m in trouble.

Because it’s pure feminine confidence.

And it’s paired with her hands commencing that touching…and her lips following in their wake.

Fingers trailing down my throat, lips kissing the divot at the bottom. She flicks open another button then another and another and another , parting the fabric as she moves down my body.

“You are so incredibly gorgeous,” she whispers, dropping her mouth to my skin.

I jerk when her tongue darts out, tasting.

Then again when I feel a flash of teeth.

But I groan, hand diving into her hair to hold her against me, when she kisses her way over to my nipple and sucks deeply.

She spends a lot of time there, slow at first and then with more confidence, with more intention.

To slowly drive me insane it seems as she makes her way across my chest to torment the other one…

And then, eventually, drifting down along my stomach.

Only, when she goes to flick open the button of my jeans, I capture her hand. “No, baby,” I say gently, pressing a kiss to her palm. “That’s okay.”

“Jean-Mi.”

I look up at her, see those pretty brown eyes blazing into mine, and God, what I wouldn’t give to flip her over, tear those jeans from her legs and plunge into her deep and fast. But she’s a virgin. She needs care, not a quick fuck in the dirt. And she doesn’t need to get me off. This is about her exploring, her pleasure. “You don’t need to worry about me, buttercup,” I say. “We have plenty of time.”

“Jean-Mi,” she says again.

I start to sit up, but she pushes me back down.

“Honey, listen to me now please, yeah?”

Like I can deny her that, can deny her anything. “Okay, baby.”

“I want to touch you,” she whispers, those cheeks going pink.

“You are?—”

Her finger presses to my lips. “Listen.”

I shut up.

“I want to touch you like you’ve touched me,” she murmurs, pink turning to red. “I want to feel you come apart. I want to give you pleasure like you’ve given me.”

“Baby, I don’t need?—”

She bends, slants her lips over mine for a short, hot kiss then whispers, “Let me, honey. Please let me.”

This isn’t my plan.

But I’m also not a good enough man to keep resisting her.

Not with her pressed against me, not with her mouth on mine, not with her hand sliding down between us again, going back to the waistband of my jeans, working that button open, dragging the zipper down.

Not with her fingers yanking at the material, freeing my cock, and wrapping around me.

I groan and she gasps, her grip tightening enough to make me see stars.

“Baby—”

“Show me what you like, Jean-Mi.”

I don’t think, just cover her hand with mine.

And stroke.

“Like this?” she asks.

“Christ,” I grunt.

She freezes, and I realize my mistake.

“It’s good, buttercup,” I say, wrenching my lids open. “It’s too fucking good because it’s going to go too fucking fast.”

Her smile sends another jolt of pleasure through me.

Then she squeezes tighter, strokes faster.

Fuck, she’s a fast learner.

Fuck, I’m too close already.

I’m riding that razor’s edge, our hands moving rapidly together, my hips jerking, sweat breaking out on my back. My orgasm is coiling tight, sitting right at the base of my spine, so ready to explode that I know I have to warn her. “Careful, baby,” I grunt, still stroking, unable to stop now. “I’m going to?—”

“Show me, honey,” she whispers. “Show me everything. Show me you.”

I tighten our grip.

Then I show her what I like.

Show her what I need.

Show her what happens when I come apart.

And because of that, I know I’m going to show her every part of me.