The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,111
the glass so I can get a proper look at him.
He reaches back to tug off his t-shirt. “No postgame interviews, just a quick conversation on the field with that ESPN correspondent you like then I hopped in my car.”
“No shower?” I ask as my mouth drops open. Getting a good look at his naked chest will never not stop me in my tracks, even now, when there’s a fresh bruise on his ribs and a red line across his abs. Marks of war.
“No shower,” he replies, pushing his shorts down along with his boxer briefs and stepping out of them. My jaw drops farther.
“Well I’m just about to get out,” I say, like a total git who hasn’t got a clue.
He glances up and locks eyes with me through the glass. “I’ll just join you.”
My heart kicks up as if sending out a signal to my body: Full steam ahead, lads!
“But, I’ve pulled out lingerie,” I say weakly, pointing toward our shared closet.
He doesn’t reply. He moves toward the shower, swings open the glass door, and steps inside. It’s like he’s just sucked all the air out with a vacuum. I struggle to breathe as he comes closer. I think he’s headed for me, but he stops under the stream, letting it soak him from head to toe. He watches me while he does it, or rather, he devours me while he does it. There’s no hiding his true intent as his eyes glide down my body, pausing at my chest and the shadow between my legs.
I know it’s Logan, my fiancé, my best mate, for heaven’s sake! But my body doesn’t seem to catch on. It’s pumping adrenaline through my veins like I need to prepare to escape. I take a step back so I can put a bit more space between us, and in a flash, his hand reaches out and he grasps me by the neck.
I yelp, and he loves it. He tugs me toward him until I’m under the stream too, but there’s no water in my eyes. He’s blocking it with his head so that it rolls down our shoulders and stomach. We’re not touching, but we’re a hair’s breadth away. His soft grip stays on my neck, and his thumb brushes back and forth over my quickening pulse.
“Maybe I’ll let you put the lingerie on later,” he says.
His dark eyes are so hot I feel charred.
He’s looking down at me like he’s concocting all sorts of wicked ideas in his head.
“But first, I need to clean off.”
He nods to the side of the shower, toward the niche where we keep our shampoo and soap bottles.
“Get me some body wash.”
No politeness in his tone. How rude! I shouldn’t listen, but I do, because…well, look at the man.
I get some soap and don’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I know what he wants. I start at his broad shoulders, dragging my hands over his arms. At times, it feels like there’s so much of him compared to me, like I’ll be here for days washing him off. With arms that size, sheesh. I get some more soap and move to his chest. He winces gently when I brush my hand over the bruise at his ribs and then I bend down to kiss the skin, letting him know I’m sorry he’s hurt.
I know he likes my lips on him. I can see it for myself, the way he starts to harden the farther I go down. The soap slides down his rippling abs, coating his skin as I bend lower. I kiss a trail down to his hips, and then gently, I touch him, soaping up his hardness, pretending to clean him off.
It’s really a guise. I don’t need to be nearly this thorough. After two passes, one could argue that he’s properly clean down there, but I have no plans on stopping. He doesn’t say a word as he watches me continue. I look up and he eclipses the shower light, casting me in shadow. He looks like the devil.
I pause for a moment, and his mouth twitches.
“Keep going,” he instructs brusquely.
Oh, tsk tsk. Someone needs to learn a little patience.
I stand up and pump more soap into my hands, then I bend back down to wash his thighs and calves. His muscles stiffen under my soft touch and I know he’s growing antsy. I’m not doing what he wants me to do, but he needs to be clean, doesn’t