Chapter 9 #2
Jess didn't look away. Her eyes tracked the length of my legs, lingering on the scar that marred my left thigh. It was red, angry, inflamed from the game.
"Sit," she said.
I sat.
She moved between my knees. She didn't back away. She stood right there, her thighs brushing against the inside of my knees.
She reached out and began to unbutton my shirt.
Top button. Second button. Third.
Her knuckles grazed the skin of my chest with each movement. My breath hitched.
"Jess," I warned, my voice a wreck. "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you," she whispered. "You can't do this yourself tonight."
"If you keep touching me..." I trailed off, my hands coming up to grip her waist. "I'm not going to be able to stop."
"Good," she said. She pushed the shirt off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
She placed her hands on my bare chest. Her palms were flat against my pectorals, feeling the heavy, thudding rhythm of my heart.
"You're racing," she noted.
"I'm dying," I corrected. "You're killing me."
She looked down at me. The moonlight caught the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lip. She looked like an angel. A dangerous, tempting angel.
"The ice," she said, reaching for the bag she had set on the nightstand. "We need to ice the hip."
"Fuck the ice," I growled.
I pulled her forward.
She gasped as she landed between my legs, her chest pressing against my face. I buried my face in the soft wool of her sweater. I inhaled her. I needed to consume her.
"Nick," she breathed, her fingers tangling in my hair. "Your hip..."
"It hurts," I mumbled against her stomach. "Make it stop. Distract me."
"How?"
I pulled back, looking up at her.
"Take it off," I commanded. "The sweater. Take it off."
She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, she reached down, grabbed the hem of her sweater, and pulled it over her head.
She wasn't wearing a bra.
My breath left my lungs in a rush.
She was perfect. Pale skin, dusted with freckles, the soft curve of her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. Her nipples were hard, pebbled from the cold air or the arousal.
"Beautiful," I whispered.
I reached out. My calloused thumbs brushed over her nipples.
She cried out, her head falling back. "Nick..."
"You like that?" I watched her face, fascinated by her unraveling.
"Yes," she whimpered.
"Come here."
I pulled her down until she was straddling my lap. I hissed as her weight settled on my thighs, the pressure on my hip momentarily blinding, but the sensation of her skin against my chest washed it away.
She wrapped her arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around her bare back.
Skin on skin. Finally.
It was electric. It was like coming home.
I kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate. It was a hungry, devouring kiss that tasted of obsession. I bit her lip, soothing the sting with my tongue. I ran my hands down her spine, over the curve of her ass, gripping her tightly, pressing her into me.
"I need you," I groaned against her mouth. "I need to be inside you, Jess. I don't care about the contract. I don't care about the draft. I just need you."
"Then take me," she whispered against my lips. "Stop talking and take me."
She ground her hips down.
The friction was too much.
I reached between us, shoving her jeans down, my hand finding the wet heat of her. She was soaked. Ready.
"You're so wet," I growled. "For me?"
"Only you," she sobbed. "Always you."
I couldn't wait. I couldn't be gentle.
I shifted, lifting her slightly, positioning her.
"Look at me," I ordered.
She opened her eyes. They were green fire.
"This," I said, my voice rough with emotion, "is real. No more fake dating. No more lies. Once I do this... you're mine. Every part of you."
"I know," she said. "I'm yours, Nick. I've been yours since the wine."
I thrust up.
She screamed my name, digging her nails into my shoulders.
I filled her. Completely.
The sensation was overwhelming. It was tighter, hotter, more intense than anything I had ever felt. It wasn't just physical. It was spiritual. It was the feeling of a missing piece finally clicking into place.
I groaned, burying my face in her neck, holding her still while we both adjusted to the invasion.
"You're so tight," I rasped. "Perfect."
"Move," she begged. "Please, Nick, move."
I moved.
It was slow at first. A rhythmic grinding that targeted every nerve ending. My hip screamed in protest, but I ignored it. I fed on the pain. I used it to drive me harder.
Jess was a mess in my arms. She was crying out, whimpering, whispering dirty, broken things in my ear.
"Harder," she plead. "Deeper."
I complied. I gripped her hips, bruising her skin, and drove into her with everything I had left.
We moved together in a frenzy of sweat and skin and heat. The room smelled of sex and desperation.
"Nick, I'm close," she gasped, her body tensing.
"Go," I commanded. "Come for me, Jess. Let me feel it."
She shattered. I felt her walls clamping down on me, milking me.
It was too much. My control—my famous, glacial control—evaporated.
I roared, thrusting into her one last time, emptying myself into her.
We collapsed against each other. My head fell onto her shoulder. She buried her face in my neck. We were both shaking, slick with sweat, our hearts beating a chaotic, synchronized rhythm against our ribs.
Silence returned to the room. But it wasn't empty silence anymore. It was heavy. Sated.
I held her. I refused to let go.
My hip was throbbing with a vengeance now, a steady drumbeat of agony. But as I kissed the damp hair at her temple, I realized I didn't care.
I had played the game. I had won the girl.
But as the adrenaline faded and the reality set in, I looked at the ceiling and wondered.
We had crossed the line. We had burned the contract.
Now, we had to survive the fallout.
Because in my world, happiness was just a target for someone else to shoot at. And I had just painted a bullseye on both our backs.