SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,57
more than a little, and he smiled down at her as her eyes closed.
So…Harp. Pretty, gorgeous, sexy Harp.
They were both sex-ruined, he thought, toppling onto the mattress beside her. God, that was excellent. When he could think or feel the ends of his fingers and toes again, he’d congratulate them both out loud. Before driving her home.
For some odd reason, he didn’t think it was a good idea she spend the night here.
He rolled his head on the pillow to gauge her wakefulness.
Pretty, gorgeous, sexy Harp.
With sore knees. Hadn’t he promised to help with that?
Mad rolled to his side and brushed the hair off her face. Murmuring, she squirmed a little on the sheets. Was she in pain?
An inspection, he decided. Up close and detailed. He trailed his lips from her forehead to her jaw. Then he feathered his fingers over her shoulders and down her arms. Lifting her limp hands, he pressed his lips to each fingertip.
Ignoring the ripple of…something—panic?—in his belly, he kissed her ribs and her navel. Then he moved to her feet, gently massaging, his thumbs pressing into each delicate arch. Each ankle received a ring of kisses.
Silly, but he thought she liked it, because she made a sound. Assent. Encouragement.
He pressed his mouth to one sore knee and then the other.
“I should go,” she said, whispering, though her fingers sifted through his hair.
He made a soothing noise as he worked his way up one inner thigh. She shifted her legs, opening to him, making it easier for him to lap at the sweetness he found between them. He licked, nuzzled, breathed in her essence.
“I should go,” she said again, the protest irrelevant because at the same time she opened more, like a butterfly, and lifted her arms over her head. Offering herself.
He kissed her center, delving his tongue to catch all of her flavor.
Harper gasped, arched, her fingers fisting in his hair.
Overcome by a wave of tenderness, he closed his eyes and rested his cheek on her thigh.
He didn’t want her to go.
Tonight.
Chapter Twelve
Mad woke alone in bed. Harper had gone? Both disappointment and relief rushed through him, until he heard telltale sounds from the kitchen. A smile broke over his face and he smelled coffee, a warm, soapy scent from the bathroom, and toasted bread.
She was up but not gone.
He hurried through his own shower, not worrying about the smile the water didn’t wash away. How ridiculous to have that momentary regret of hot sex with a hot partner who didn’t expect anything more from him than the means to make coffee in the morning.
In jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet, he sauntered into the kitchen. His hand shot out to steady himself on the doorjamb when he caught sight of his hot sex partner, her back to him.
Her body draped in another of his T-shirts that left her legs bare and brought up a vivid memory of the nape of her neck and her naked spine beneath his lips. Every inch of her had tasted beautiful.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Good morning,” she said, her tone as sunny as the light streaming through the window.
His mood instantly darkened because…who the hell knew why.
“Morning,” he muttered, then headed for the coffeepot.
“I’m making omelets,” she said, a knife thunking against the wooden cutting board. “Mushrooms, tomato, cheese, avocado.”
“Sounds good.” Then why didn’t he feel more grateful?
Because this would be too easy to become accustomed to…a woman lately out of his bed and now making breakfast.
Don’t get used to it. Don’t get used to Harper.
“Sit down,” she told him. Minutes later, she put two plates on the table.
The table they’d used last night.
He stared down at it.
“What’s the matter?”
“We should have had sex in the car not the kitchen,” he muttered.
“Why?” She took her own seat and placed a paper napkin on her lap. Then, as if the answer suddenly occurred to her, she laughed, one brow rising. “Really? Now that it was used as a sex prop, the table has lost its joy for you?”
He just stared, hoping she felt his disapproval.
“What?” She laughed again. “I wiped it down. I promise.”
Shaking his head, he grabbed his own napkin and a fork. Mealtime would never be the same.
She reached across to give his free hand a quick squeeze. “Don’t ever change, Mad,” she said. “I will forever think of you here, wearing that exact glower because your table has somehow betrayed you.”