The Jock by J.L. Beck Page 0,39

times, apologizing, but all he wrote back was to meet him for another session today. Technically, it’s not my tutoring days, but I owe it to him to finish my session.

So here I am, walking up the steps of the library with a stack full of books in my arms.

When I reach the top step, I look down the long corridor and see that the door to our room is already open, but I can’t see inside from where I’m standing.

Moving closer, I stop dead in my tracks at the threshold. Cage is standing inside the room, half sitting on the table. His arms are crossed over his chest, making him look even bigger and more muscular. The fabric of his red T-shirt is stretched over the muscles, drawing my attention to his biceps. None of that is what has me frozen in place though. It’s the expression on his face that has me a little shocked and definitely confused. He looks angry, like really angry.

“Come in, you already skimmed time off my last session,” he growls as if he’s a teacher, and I’m a student who’s earned a one-way ticket to detention.

I approach him with caution like I would a wild animal because that’s what this feels like right now. He seems wild, unhinged, and I simply don’t know what to expect.

“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” I apologize again as I carefully step into the room. I try not to cringe at the sound of my voice. It isn’t often that I admit being sorry, but I genuinely am. Time is precious, and Cage was doing so well.

A wicked grin that makes my heart beat a little faster, tugs on his lips. “You can make it up to me by finishing that kiss you owe me.”

“I already kissed you,” I whisper and set my books down on the table beside him.

“You call that a kiss?” He pushes off the table and takes a threatening step toward me. “Are you afraid to pay up?”

“No, I shake my head while internally screaming, yes.

Each step he takes is measured with precision, stalking me like I’m his prey. Unconsciously, I take a few steps back, wanting to put some breathing room between us, but he eats up the distance with his long legs, and soon my back is pressed against the wall.

Peering up at him, I can see his pupils are dilated, his features are brutal, beautiful, and like a priceless piece of art, I want to stare at him. In a blink, he covers the remaining distance between us, pouncing on me.

His lips crash against mine like waves of water on a cliff’s edge. Dazed, I’m unsure of what to make of his lips on mine. His lips burn against mine as he kisses me with a fever that I’ve never experienced before. Burying one hand into my hair, he places the other on my hip, holding me in place as he possesses my mouth like a man starved of air, oxygen, and food.

This is not like our first kiss, the small innocent peck we had shared. There is nothing innocent about this. This is raw, angry, red hot passion.

It’s saying hello and goodbye at the same time. Feeling the burn of the sun and the glow of the moon. It’s giving someone your heart and expecting them to protect, shelter, and care for it as their own, and it’s something I’m not sure I’ll ever experience again in my life.

My own hands find the front of his shirt, my fingers curl into the fabric, and I cling to him like he’s my life raft. Cinnamon and cloves fill my nostrils. This man smells like Christmas morning, and I want to unwrap him like a present.

His lips part slightly, and he runs his tongue along my bottom lip, begging for entry. Parting my lips, I grant him access, and he takes full advantage, stroking my tongue with his as I moan into his mouth. He kisses me with experience, without worry or hesitation, a man with skill and finesse.

Pushing up onto my tippy toes, I lean into him, wanting to get closer, and I do. We’re so close now that there is nothing between us besides the thin layer of clothes, and even that seems too much. I’m burning up, feverish with need. I want to feel his skin on mine, feel him between my thighs, let him touch a part of me, so few have.

I think that’s what he wants too.