Page 52 of Relationship Goals

“I am an…intense sort of person.”

It’s so quiet I have to strain to hear him.

“When I decide I want something, I go after it. But that doesn’t mean I expect the same from my partner.”

Well. That’s a new one.

He’s silent, his eyes closed, the impossibly thick fringe of his lashes the only thing I can focus on. That, and the delicious masculine smell of his cologne.

“Okay,” I finally say when I realize he’s waiting for a response. “I like that.”

I do, too, and I like it even more when his hand skates down from my face, over the damp circles he left over my hard nipples, and between my thighs. He rests it proprietarily there for a minute, and I squirm, my breathing quickening as he runs his finger down the center of my sweatpants.

“If I don’t leave now,” he grits out, “I’m going to break my own rules, be very intense with you, and then play very badly because all I’ll be able to think about is your soaked pussy.”

“You better leave, then,” I say wispily.

“I better leave.” He strokes his fingers again, and I groan, raising my hips. “Fuck, Abigail.”

“I’d like that,” I tell him fervently. “Yes, please.”

Luke doesn’t move for a long moment.

“Fuck me,” he says, and I moan as his thumbs hook into the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling them down over my thighs. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” I breathe, hardly daring to blink, not believing my good luck. “But I don’t want to force you if you have your game thingy.”

“Game thingy,” he huffs, shooting me a disbelieving look from behind those thick black lashes.

“Superstition.” I am honestly beyond impressed that I’ve remembered a word that has more than one syllable. Go me.

“Oh,” he says, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. “That thingy.”

“Can you blame me for forgetting the word?” I mean it to come out playful, but it doesn’t. It’s breathy and so, so needy.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs my pants down completely, swearing inaudibly at the scrap of fabric left between us. I kick my legs a little, pointing my feet until the pants slide all the way off.

“Tell me what you want.” The words are haggard, and when his eyes meet mine they’re pleading.

“Tell me whatyouwant,” I say quietly, feeling fragile and afraid. Not of being naked in front of him, because he’s looking at me like I’m a piece of art, like I’m some kind of wondrous creation he can’t glance away from. “You’re the one who has rules about this kind of thing.”

“You don’t have rules about sex?” There’s an edge to his voice, and his thick hands clench around my ass as he pulls me closer to him. His mouth finds mine again, plundering, so needy and delicious I can hardly breathe.

“Not any that revolve around soccer,” I finally squeak out. “Sex, though, sure. I suppose. Balls, sure, sometimes.”

He tugs my shirt off, and it joins my sweatpants on the floor. “Balls?” he finally asks, a smile on his face. “What are your rules about balls?”

I squirm, completely incapable of thinking of anything clever at all. “They have to be clean. Clean balls.” I cringe.

He laughs again, a throaty sound I could get very used to. “I’ll try to remember that,” he says. “Cleaning the balls before sex. I can do that.”

My hands stroke up and down his arms, loving the feel of him, of his muscles and the way he’s looking at me. Treasure. It hits me—that’s how he’s looking at me—like I’m some kind of treasure he’s unearthed.

His gaze travels down my body, nearly naked for him, for us both, and I swear it leaves a hot trail behind on my skin. Seconds tick by, and I wonder how far I’d have to push him to get him to abandon his no-sex rule.

“Let me taste you.” It’s halfway between a demand and a request, and my throat goes dry.

“If you don’t, I might die,” I tell him seriously, flinging the back of my hand against my forehead.