The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,42
crackers, popcorn, biscuits, nuts, cereal. It’s endless. I think I’m close to tears, but maybe it’s because only moments ago I assumed I’d never eat again.
I’ve just popped the lid on some Pringles when Logan strolls into the kitchen and catches me red-handed.
My cheeks are so flushed you could fry an egg on them.
“Oh, I do hope you were serious about the ‘making yourself at home’ bit,” I say, scanning guiltily across the junk food I’d already begun to pull from the shelves. It nearly covers his kitchen island, and now I realize I might have gotten carried away.
Logan doesn’t move from the doorway, at least not at first. He hovers there, looking at his kitchen then looking at me. The edge of his mouth tips up into a smile, and then he laughs and strolls in to dump his bag on the island (on the edge, where there are still a few centimeters of free space). He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me, taking the Pringles tin from my hands and dropping it on the counter beside me.
I get a heavy whiff of his spiced body wash as his hands come to my hips and he pivots us, walking me backward until my back hits the edge of the island.
“You’ve just showered,” I blurt out.
“Yeah. I had a late workout today. I called in the middle of it.”
That sends my brain spiraling with glorious images of him lifting heavy objects while sweat drips down his bare abs.
“Tell me about it?”
His dark brow quirks. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to create a proper fantasy, but I don’t know what all you did. A bit of running? Did you lift some of those huge tires? Tell me everything,” I tease while my eyes flutter closed.
He laughs under his breath then leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. With my eyes closed, it feels even more intimate, and I don’t stop myself from resting my palms flat against his hard chest.
He tightens his hold on my hips and I stay perfectly still, wondering what will happen next. Will we sweep all this junk food aside and go at it right here in his kitchen? How sinful!
But when Logan’s mouth doesn’t immediately descend on mine, I open my eyes to find him studying me with a smile.
“So you spoke to your boss?” he asks, letting his gaze fall to my mouth.
I wet my bottom lip and his eyes narrow.
Oh…interesting.
“Yes. This morning.”
“And?”
“Well…it’s not against the rules per se to engage in…well…err, I don’t think I should call it dating yet, right? A bit presumptive of me.”
“You’re allowed to date me and you won’t be fired?”
“Ye—”
The S sound gets stolen by his lips as they crash down onto mine.
I’m so dead shocked I sort of flinch in fear until my brain can put two and two together and I realize I’m being kissed, properly kissed, by Logan Matthews!
He’s ace at it, by the way.
His mouth moves on mine and his lips are gentle at first, not too forceful or overly keen like some lads. At first, it’s like he’s testing the waters, making sure I’m okay with what he’s doing. I fist my hands in his shirt in case he tries to pull back. Not an option. Then he steps toward me to deepen the kiss, and the countertop bites into my lower back.
Oh, bliss.
I think I must say that aloud because he pulls back half a centimeter to chuckle, but I don’t let him go any farther. I kiss him again—harder. I wrap my arms around his neck and bring our bodies flush together. It’s not so easy with his height, so I rise up onto my tippy toes. That’s apparently still not good enough for him because he hoists me up by the hips and plops me on the edge of the island.
My arse crunches half a bag of crisps, and now I’m laughing too hard to be kissed properly.
He groans in annoyance and grasps my chin in his hands to hold me still.
His eyes lock with mine and oof, his brown eyes are like a punch to the gut. The last of my laughter dies a swift death.
“Spread your legs,” he says, all confident, causing my insides to liquify instantly.
I do as he says then he steps between them, nestling us together like a lock and key. My dress slides up high on my thighs, revealing more of my sheer black stockings.