Chapter 13
Thirteen
Marie
I gasp, losing hold of my e-reader.
It clatters to the floor…and then I realize with horror that I’m next.
That I’m going to be tumbling to the floor next.
Or face planting.
But that thought is in and out of my head in a heartbeat.
Because even as I start to fall?—
I hear a beep, my motion abruptly cuts off?—
And then I’m in Jace’s arms.
How the fuck am I in Jace’s arms?
And why does it feel so right? Why, instead of fighting his hold, am I melting against his chest, my pulse skittering for a completely different reason aside from fear?
“Sorry,” he says huskily, setting me on my feet, hands holding on to my waist until I’m steady.
Then he turns, reaching up and hitting the stop button on both machines.
The belts slow, stop—same as my pulse.
But that settling doesn’t come quickly enough for my sanity because by the time I’m dropping back into myself, by the time my heart stops beating against my rib cage, my brain starts working again, he’s bent…
And scooped up my e-reader.
With my supremely dirty book open right there on the screen.
“I—”
To my complete and utter horror, he begins reading,
“‘I want to be the one sitting on his lap, want to be the one who so confidently sinks my fingers into those dark blond locks and shoves his gorgeous face into my not-as-nice-as-hers-but-still-fucking-great breasts. Hot breath on my skin. A calloused hand skating along my side. A thick cock pushing home—’” He looks up, grins. “Jesus, gorgeous.” Then keeps reading and clicking and I’m too horrified and shocked to stop him.
“‘Don’t be scared, little spitfire, not now that we’ve finally had some fun.’” Hot eyes tossed in my direction. “I know exactly what kind of fun they’re talking about, cookie.” His voice rumbles as he continues reading the scene—and it’s a good one—out loud, “‘ I should threaten to stab you with my keys again.’ He winds an arm around my middle. ‘I might like it if it means you’ll let me feel that tight pussy of yours again.’” His eyes sparkle with mirth…and heat. “Is this where you get your inspiration from?”
What kind of inspiration?
For horizontal fun—or vertical, if it involves a big desk chair and an even bigger dick? Or for my next level snark skills?
Because the correct answer to this is…yes. To both.
To so many things.
Including the many, many spicy dreams I’ve had about repeating our nighttime adventures—and doing them in the morning, afternoon, or crepuscular hours.
The man has a magic dick.
I knew it, knew it from that first sexy smile he tossed my way.
And I’m no less immune to his charms than I’ve ever been.
The only difference is that I’m finally smart enough to not stick my hand into the flames and get burned by another man.
I set the boundaries.
I make the decisions.
I decide when enough is enough…so I’m not ever that vulnerable again.
“Hand it over, Henderson,” I order, extending my hand, palm up.
His eyes dance with humor, but he doesn’t pass me my e-reader back. Instead, he swipes…and—kill me now—keeps reading, “‘My mouth falls open and before I can find a retort—and I have to face it, one would be a long time coming.’” He glances up, the amusement in those gorgeous eyes growing. “Wouldn’t that be nice? If a certain someone’s retorts were stymied…”
I grind my teeth together. “You?—”
Before I can retort—and no, I don’t know if one would spring free, or if I would be like the heroine in this hockey romance, struggling to keep up with the pesky hero—he goes on, “‘ Especially with that smirk he’s sporting and those twinkling eyes and the way his pants are just barely staying up…One tug and—’” Wide eyes. An even wider grin as he flicks his gaze down toward his sweats…which, indeed, are barely staying up. “Wanna try that tug out in real life?”
I snort. “In your dreams.”
He drops my e-reader into my hand, gently bends my fingers around the can-survive-an-atom-bomb case, and says, “Yeah, gorgeous, in my dreams. One hundred percent, in my dreams every night since I woke up and found my bed empty.”
My heart thuds hard, slamming against my ribs, stealing my breath. “I told you it was one night only.”
Half of his mouth hitches up. “Yeah, cookie, you did.” One big shoulder lifts, drops. “Or at least, you said it was one time only.” The other half of his mouth curves up wickedly. “I changed your mind about that too.”
“I don’t want?—”
“ You don’t want it,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But that doesn’t mean that I only wanted one night.”
Danger. Danger.
He brushes the backs of his knuckles over my cheek and the gentle touch undoes me…and simultaneously locks me into place. “I-it doesn’t matter,” I say, clinging to the words that thankfully slide off my tongue without me really thinking about them, growing stronger with each one I speak. “I wanted it to be one night, so it’s one night.”
I expect a reply.
Expect him to push back.
Instead, he stands there, steady and still and silent for three—I count—heartbeats. Then he drops his hand to his side and steps back.
I hate that he’s no longer touching me, hate more that he’s stepped back.
But a mere five —again, I count—heartbeats after he retreats that pace away, I’m contemplating murder.
Because he whips off his shirt, tosses it on the handle of the treadmill, and glances over his shoulder at me, eyes sparking with a challenge I feel the inner teenager in me unable to back down from.
“Okay, then,” he says easily as he begins pushing at the control panel on the treadmill.
I frown, trying my best to not drool over that gloriously naked torso, glistening lightly with sweat in the overhead lights. Narrow hips I wrapped my legs around as he pounded into me, a muscular back I dug my nails into, an ass I wanted to bite.
“Okay what?” I push out when I realize he’s still watching me, presumably waiting for a reply.
His eyes dance.
His grin reappears.
His question has me plotting homicide by dumbbell.
Because then he asks,
“So, how far are we running, cookie?”