The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,43
leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the edge of my mouth.
I try to turn to land my mouth on his lips—suddenly desperate to kiss him again—but he doesn’t let me. His hands hold me perfectly still as his mouth drops down to my neck. He kisses there, just at the base of my chin where my pulse seems closest to my skin. He can feel it, I bet, hammering away as his lips move a little lower and touch my skin again. He breathes me in and my thighs want to clench together, but since he’s standing between them, they tighten around him instead. He likes that; I can tell because he rolls his hips against me, giving me a little taste of everything that could be if we took things a bit further.
When his mouth gets to the collar of my dress, he pulls back and looks down at me.
I’m breathing hard. It’s sort of embarrassing, but he’s not paying a bit of attention. His gaze is on my thighs as he pushes the material of my dress up higher until it’s right at my waist. My sheer stockings reveal a hint of my skimpy black panties. They’re nearly indecent and I’m almost tempted to yank my dress down to cover them up once again, but then Logan reaches down to trace a line along the hem. The pad of his finger runs over my stockings so the material is yet another thing used to tease me as he continues, over one thigh, down between them, and then back up.
“Black is an interesting color on you,” he says, and his voice sounds different than I’m used to.
A little scary, if I’m honest.
“Oh?”
“You with your ballet flats and your blonde hair and your freckles on your nose. I would have expected you to wear pink or white.”
“I like black,” I say, trying not to fidget under his gaze.
His eyes flit up to mine, and he grins like a villain who’s bested his nemesis.
“I do too.”
Then with a groan, he pushes off the counter, swipes a hand through his hair, and yanks the fridge open.
I’m so bereft in his absence that I nearly tip off the side of the island before catching myself.
“Where’ve you gone?” I ask, aware that my bottom lip is jutting out a bit.
I thought we were onto something. I thought he was feeling everything I was.
“To get ahold of my sanity,” he says, reaching in to grab a package of lunch meat. “I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I planned to ask if you were hungry. I was going to make you dinner.”
He retrieves more sandwich supplies then carries them over to the island to set them down beside me after he shoves aside some snack food bags. When his gaze falls between my open thighs, I slam them shut again.
His eyes narrow as he sucks in a deep breath and refocuses on the task at hand.
“So we’re going to eat dinner?” I squeak.
“Yes. I’m going to make you a sandwich.”
“So chic.”
The glare he shoots me warns me that he’d like to punish me for my impertinence. Oh! Please do!
“You could just drape some ham on me and eat it off?” I suggest, liking this game we’re playing where he pretends to be serious and I persuade him otherwise.
He squeezes his eyes shut then casts his gaze heavenward as if looking for some divine help with dealing with me.
“Just stay put right where you are, will you?”
“Sure thing,” I say, chipper as a Girl Scout.
I stay up on the counter, helping him construct sandwiches for us to eat. We load them up with cheese and avocado and tomato and lettuce. By the time we’re done, his is so massive I doubt he’ll be able to fit it into his mouth at one time.
“Let’s go to the table,” he says, helping me down from the island, taking my hand in his, and leading me across the room.
Everything in his flat is well-designed. The whole place is a mixture of traditional furniture and lighter, more modern details. Someone definitely did it all for him, which is fine. I bet he doesn’t have much room in his schedule to worry about interior design.
“I really like your flat. I did get a little lost earlier, I will admit, but I found my way back to the kitchen soon enough.”