Page 50 of Relationship Goals

“I do,” he finally answers, just as seriously.

“To your game,” I add, still holding the jersey up between us.

“That’s right.” He nods, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“I love it.” Before I can think better of it, I’m vaulting onto him, wrapping my arms around him, the jersey crumpled in my hand.

He tenses as our bodies make contact, and for a split second, I worry I’ve misread him. Then his sigh grazes the top of my head, and he cautiously puts his arms around me, too.

I relax into him, inhaling the scent of his spicy cologne and wanting to live right here, inside this moment, as long as I can.

“I’m glad.” The words are a whuff of air against the shell of my ear. “You didn’t look through the rest.”

“I already have everything I want,” I tell his chest, and when he laughs in surprise, the vibration rolls through me.

“You’ll want more than one jersey.”

“I wasn’t talking about the jersey.” It pops out before I can think better of it, and I hardly breathe, terrified I’ve fucked it up, asked for too much, been too sincere too soon.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I backtrack, trying to put the cat back in the bag. “I just meant you’re more important than a box full of clothes, and I think you’re funny and sweet, but I’m not putting any pressure on you. We’ve only been on one date. That was stupid of me—”

“Abigail.” The caress of my name on his lips shocks me into silence.

“You aren’t stupid.” His fingers go to my cheeks, thumbs stroking along my jawline, brushing butterfly light over my lips. “I…haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

That’s all it takes to ignite me, my body going deliciously tight and needy in one heady moment.

“I know.” I blink up at him. “I mean, I feel the same.”

“I know what you meant,” he growls, and then he kisses me, and it’s nothing like either kiss that’s come before.

I moan, the jersey in my hand falling to the floor as I rake my hand up the nape of his neck, curling my fingers around his hair.

Teeth tug on my lower lip, and I gasp with the thrill of it.

Luke lifts me off the floor in one impossible movement—and damn, I was already a fan of his muscles, but now I’m ready to make a cluband head it as president—and sets me on the kitchen table. The box goes sliding as my back hits it, and we break apart as I huff a surprised laugh.

He watches me for a moment through heavy hooded lids, so serious and intense that the laugh starts to die on my lips, then turns to a gasp as he surges forward. His thick thigh goes between my legs, spreading them, his mouth kissing down my jaw, my neck.

“I hate this fucking hoodie,” he breathes into the dip between my collarbones.

“Take it off, take it off,” I chant, practically squirming against his thigh. God, he feels so good, so right. I don’t want to think about what this means. I don’t want to think at all.

He doesn’t hesitate, simply tugging up the ribbed hem as I raise my arms straight up.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, leaving the sweatshirt where it is around my wrists. “Look at that, Abigail. Fuck. You’re so beautiful.”

I look down, and all I see is my normal-size boobs and my white tank top, and I flush as I realize I didn’t even throw a bra on before I answered the door.

“I forgot a bra,” I squeak, unable to keep one damned thought inside my head.

“I fucking love it,” he says. His chest is heaving, his blue eyes darkening as his eyes dilate, gaze traveling back to mine. “Can you stand having the sweatshirt like that?”

“Huh?” I ask, not understanding. My sweatshirt catches around my arms, pushing my boobs out. My nipples harden, and he groans.

Oh.

Wow. Did it just get hotter in here? Because holy hell, I am incredibly turned on by this man.