Page 17 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

His mouth moves with purpose—lips dragging, tongue teasing my jawline, my neck, breath hot as sin. And when he pulls away, it’s only to press another kiss … lower .

My shirt is gone before I even notice his hands have moved. One moment, I am kissing him back, gripping his shoulders like they’re anchors, and the next, I am completely bare, chest rising, and nipples aching as they brush against his.

His kisses move lower and lower. I arch my back, showing him where I want his mouth, but he brushes just beside the peak, ghosting heat over sensitive skin, deliberately avoiding the place I need him.

“Skinner,” I whisper, arching into nothing.

I feel his lips curve up as he cups my breasts and kisses beneath them, then the other. “Nah. You’re not ready yet.”

He works his way down like he intends on touching every part of my body when I really just want him inside of me.

His tongue trails over the curve of my belly, calloused hands grip my waist with almost enough pressure that it could be confused for possessiveness, but he wouldn’t dare; that’s not what this is.

He’s not claiming me, and I sure as hell am not trying to be claimed.

I ache lower, too, but I won’t presume Griffon Skinner is that giving.

He steps off the bed and drops his sweats, but before I can shove up on my elbows and get a good look, he’s on his knees between my legs, thick fingers curling into the backs of my thighs as his lips press the softest parts of me—the crease of my hip, the inside of my thigh, places I didn’t know could throb until now.

And still, he doesn’t touch the place that is wet, and pulsing, and so damn ready.

I whimper, legs trembling.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I haven’t even started.”

He sits up, and holy … fucking … shit.

My breath catches. My eyes widen. Every thought empties out of my skull as I take him in— all of him.

Broad chest already bare, abs dusted with hair that point straight to his thick, heavy cock now hanging between solid thighs. Veins, curve, girth—it is everything. More than I expected. Enough to make me consider calling uncle.

He smirks. “You didn’t know you were getting a two-fer, did you?”

“Huh?” I ask, confused.

His voice drops an octave. “I’m a show-er and a grower, and bonus—I move bodies for a living.”

He palms my sex, his finger tracing a delicate line up my cleft.

His voice is a low rumble as he asks, “And you, Izzy Ross?” He licks his lips, his gaze smoldering as he looks down at me.

“You’re about to get moved.” He presses a tender kiss to my belly, a spot I’d normally try to hide, not out of shame for my curves, but because men like him—swaggering, athletic Casanovas—always seem to prefer the waifish, model types, with their surgically enhanced bodies.

He growls against my flesh, his voice a husky whisper. “I knew your body would be sexy as hell, all laid out and bared to me, but I never expected it to be this damn intoxicating.”

His words send a shiver down my spine, his tongue and lips blazing a trail across my hips, like a match struck in the dark.

He lifts my lower half, his stubble grazing my skin as he nips at one ass cheek, then the other. “I’m not the kind of guy who plays games to see how far a girl will go, but say the word, and I’ll worship this ass and make you feel so damn good.”

I plant my foot on his shoulder, a feeble attempt to regain some control.

He chuckles, a deep, primal sound that resonates from his chest. “Too far?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

“You’re on Mars, Skinner. Bring it back to Earth or?—”

But then he licks me, lowering my ass back to the mattress, his tongue a hot, velvety caress.

He growls against my skin, “Fuck, you taste amazing.”

His arms are wrapped around my outer thighs, his thumb stroking up and down my seam, his eyes never leaving mine. “So pretty, Iz,” he murmurs, sticking his thumb in his mouth, his eyes rolling back as he savors my taste. “Mmmm.”

“Skinner, just …” I start, but he pushes a finger inside me, his touch sending waves of pleasure crashing through me.

He moves beside me, his fingers curling, hitting a spot that sends jolts of electricity through my body.

His breath is hot and ragged at the shell of my ear, his hardness pressing against me.

“Just what, Iz?” he whispers, his voice a husky growl.

“More,” I moan, reaching for him.

He pins my arm between us, his voice a rough whisper. “Ladies first.”

I protest weakly, but he silences me with his touch, his fingers doing things— incredible things— that leave me breathless and aching for more.

Again, I arch against him, and this time, he nips my earlobe, eliciting a whimper from deep inside of me.

His finger sinks between my folds, parting my soaked lips, and begins running the length of me. My thighs start to tense, my body trembles, and he wraps his other hand around my hip to hold me steady.

“Give me those fucking lips,” he hisses.

I turn my head, my eyes meet his, which are no longer that mossy green; they’re nearly black as they focus on my lips.

For a few moments, I feel like he’s just gonna stare at them, and my mouth and throat go dry.

I swallow hard and wet my lips with my tongue right before his crash against mine, capturing my mouth, my moans, my whimpers and groans.

Then his finger slips inside of me again, sliding up to meet my swollen clit.

My body convulses at the first touch as he slips his fingers along that line again before he dips deep inside of me.

I cry out as my head flies back against his shoulder, my back arching, giving him more access.

He smiles right before his lips glide down my neck, nipping at the skin as his fingers work magic inside of me, in and out, slowly, a controlled pace, driving a little deeper as I writhe and moan under his touch.

His other hand travels up my body between my breasts, fingers lightly gripping the base of my neck.

His hand tightens, and I like it … which briefly causes me to doubt …

everything. He fucks me with his fingers as our lips and tongues taste one another’s.

“Give those lips back,” he growls.

When he breaks our kiss, I see a small smile curl on his lips.

His hand descends again, sliding between my breasts then back up, palming one tit, pulling me harder against him, allowing me to feel his hard length against my body as his fingers continue working their magic, moving slowly in and out of me.

He squeezes my breast, plucks my nipple, and I see stars.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

My voice? I don’t even recognize it. It’s needy, throaty, and thick with desire for him to continue as I feel my orgasm is within reach. Then again, it always is. It’s always right there, just out of reach. But this, this is right …

“Oh, no … no … oh …” My eyes fly open as my heart pounds when they meet his. A knowing smile curls on his lips when he sees that I’m ready to fall apart.

“I got you, Iz. Now give it to me,” he hisses through his teeth.

It wouldn’t matter if I tried to stop. No way in hell is that happening, and so I do. I give it to him.

“That’s it, Iz. Fuck yes. Fuck … yes, just like that.”

And it is … just like that .

My heart thunders in my chest, and my lungs drag for air like I just finished running the Glen stairs for field hockey practice.

I’m freaking clinging to him, one hand twisted in his hair, the other pressed hard against his bare chest, like I need to hang on to him or I might float away.

My legs? Forget it. Noodles. Absolutely useless.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still holding me, anchored to me. His hand cupping the back of my head, holding it firmly so my forehead is resting lightly on his chest as I try to get my breath evened out.

After a few minutes, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look me over like he’s memorizing every inch of me in this exact state. Hair a mess. Body trembling. Eyes wide and a little wild.

“You gonna sleep?” he asks, voice rough.

I swallow hard. “I mean, eventually.”

“You staying?”

I hesitate. If this was anyone else, I might, but this is Griffon freaking Skinner, and it’s not happening.

He nods like he knows I’m not.

I release his hair and roll to my back. “Not bad, player.”

“You just gonna take yours and go?” he asks with a smirk.

“Please,” I huff.

“Good. Because I’m not ready to be done with you yet.”

And neither, apparently, am I.

I roll to my side, wrap my fingers around his cock, and—frickin’ A—it feels like a flesh-covered crowbar, veins popping up like ropes under my palm. My hand doesn’t even make it halfway around, and I did squeeze with real effort.

The look in his eyes is equal parts amusement and a challenge, a kind of let’s see what you’re made of that makes my spine straighten in the best way.

He hisses and sucks in a breath, lips peeling back from his teeth in a wolfish, almost threatening smile.

“You think you can handle all I have to give, Iz?” he asks. His voice has dropped, gone gravelly.

“Please,” I say, ensuring I sound bored, like we’re just talking about the weather.

Sure, his dick is objectively alarming, but I’m not about to be the one who blinks first.

I roll my wrist, drag my knuckles down the length, and watch his abs clench up one by one, a six-pack domino effect. “You done shit talking, Skinner?”

He barks a laugh, and the sound vibrates in my chest. “Talk shit, take hits. That’s what we players do, isn’t it?”

“So, this is what all the fuss is about?” I attempt to joke, but my own voice wobbles a little because he starts to move, just thrusting slow and steady into my hand.

Yes, his size is both a threat and a promise, but my competitive streak—mutant strong, a thing that burned my whole academic and athletic career—decides this is a challenge I am going to win, even if it leaves me walking funny for a week.

He looms closer, so close I can smell the body heat radiating off his skin, the musk and sweat sharp.

His hands land on my hips, huge and heavy, fingers splayed so wide I feel like he could snap me in half if he wants.

Instead, he just grips me, like I’m the barbell and he’s about to deadlift me straight off the bed.

He presses his forehead against mine, his breath coming harsh and fast. “You tap, I stop,” he says, and for the first time, there’s an edge in it, a hint of actual concern. Then he grins before licking my bottom lip because, apparently, he’s the type of guy who’d double down on a dare.

“If I tap, it’s just to reposition,” I shoot back, and then I do something totally on instinct. I bite his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.

He jerks back, and I swear I feel the swell of his cock pulse against my palm. He liked that.

The mood goes from competitive to carnivorous in half a heartbeat.

He picks me up—literally picks me up—his hands firm as vices under my thighs, and flips me on my back, without breaking eye contact.

He dips his head, and his mouth attacks my collarbone like he is trying to brand me with his teeth. Fair game, I suppose.

He doesn’t ask. He just presses the head of his cock to my entrance, and for a split-second, I panic.

“Condom!”

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans as he moves off the bed, heads to his duffle, and pulls one out. He sheathes himself as he walks toward me.

Propped up on my elbows, I watch as he works it on, thinking there’s no way this is going to work, but then I remember who I am and what I want, and I force myself to relax.

As he crawls over me, I lock eyes with him, give a slow, exaggerated nod, and brace for impact.

He drags his cock along my seam slowly, almost taunting.

“You need a hug first or?—”

He thrusts into me.

The stretch is intense; a white-hot burn forces all the air out of my lungs. He holds there, letting me adjust, letting my body negotiate … all of him.

“You need a hug?” His attempt to mock me fails. There’s a surprising note of gentleness.

“Go slow, player,” I rasp, digging my nails into his back for leverage. “We’re not on a clock.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and then he starts to move, fractions of an inch at a time, a slow, deliberate campaign of conquest. My thighs shake, and I can feel the sweat slicking my lower back against the cool cotton.

He has an elbow on the bed, beside my head, ink on his inner arm.

His other hand is gripping the back of my thigh, my leg hitched over his hip.

Each thrust forces a little involuntary sound out of me—nothing cute or pornographic, just raw, guttural grunts that sound like they belong to some other animal. He seems to like that.

He angles up, finding a spot that makes me clench around him, and his whole body shudders in response, finally giving me the idea that I have some leverage here.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice almost strangled. “You’re perfect, Iz.”

It’s filthy and sincere at the same time, and it makes something inside my chest fizz and pop.

I wrap my other legs around his waist, lock my ankles, and match his rhythm, meeting each drive with a push of my own. His eyes roll, teeth grit, and his expression changes. I catch a touch of vulnerability, and I hate that I like that.

I’ve never been manhandled like this, never been treated like an equal and a challenge in the same breath. It’s addictive. The rush of it, the sense of being completely outmuscled but never outmatched.

“Is that all you got?” I gasp, biting back an actual scream as he bottoms out. That last inch is an act of pure stubborn willpower.

He bares his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple. “You want more?”

“Try me,” I dare, and he does.

We keep at it, relentless, until the world narrows to just the slap of skin and the sound of our voices tangled together.

When the tension breaks—when I come harder than I thought possible—I may have blacked out for a second, because the next thing I know, his whole body weight is on me, slick with sweat, his heart beating hard against mine that’s doing the same.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he groans as he pushes up on his elbows, and I’m too wrecked to argue.

We both stay there for a while, breath catching up to heartbeats, not saying anything, just basking in the weird, electric aftermath. At some point, he reaches over and laces his fingers through mine, like we’ve been doing this forever.

That’s when I realize maybe I’m not just here to scratch an itch. Perhaps this is the beginning of something far more dangerous.

I plant my hands on his chest and push. “You’re too big. Get off?—”

He twirls a finger in my hair. “Not too big. Definitely not too small. Izzylocks, it was juuust right.”