Page 21 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

She hops down from the counter, body rubbing against mine, palm to my chest, and pushes me back until my ass is in that chair. Then she straddles and kisses me until I damn-near forget my own name.

The kiss is all heat and intention, her mouth taking immediate, aggressive control. She tastes like spearmint and cool water, and I can’t decide if I want to swallow her whole or just let her keep devouring me.

My hands find her waist out of instinct, but she catches them and pins them to the chair’s wooden arms, her fingers a vice grip of lust and triumph.

She deepens the kiss, tongue slipping past my lips with practiced ease, and I feel my body arch up to meet her, a puppet to whatever show she wants to stage.

Her breath is hot little huffs that escape as she presses herself down harder.

I can feel the heat of her through my jeans, and her hips roll with a precision that feels like she mapped out every nerve ending and is going to hit them one by one.

She releases my hands, eventually, but not as a concession—more like a dare, as if she’s saying, “Go ahead; see if you can do better.” I take the challenge, sliding my hands up under her shirt and across her back.

Her skin is hot, goosebumps rising under my palms as I trace the line of her spine, and she shivers, just once, but it’s enough to know I scored a point.

She retaliates by breaking the kiss and moving to my throat, teeth grazing my pulse before clamping down lightly. I groan, half in shock, half in bliss, and she licks the same spot she marked, soothing it with a slow, lazy swirl of her tongue. If I wasn’t already hard, that would’ve done it.

My hands curve around her hips, pulling her closer, grinding us together. She moans—quiet, just a whimper, but I feel it vibrate through her entire body. She bites me again, harder this time, and I realize she’s intentional in marking her territory, staking her claim.

I score my own comeback by sliding one hand up, fingers splaying across the small of her back, then slipping under the waistband of her leggings to cup her bare ass.

Her breath hitches, and she straightens, eyes wide in momentary surprise before the grin returns, twice as wicked.

She rocks against me, the friction almost unbearable, and I grow dizzy from the cycle of tension and release.

“You think that’s gonna break me?” she whispers, voice scraping against my earlobe, a wet promise tucked into the words.

“Not even close.” I force a laugh, but my voice is thready, and I know she hears it.

She laughs—a short, feral sound—and starts grinding against me with even more purpose. I try to hold out, but she’s relentless—hands in my hair like last night, rocking back and forth, lips at my jaw, neck, then collarbone, biting and sucking every exposed inch.

I’m fucked, drowning in her and loving every goddamn second.

I fight back, gripping her tighter, dragging my hands up under her shirt until I feel the edge of her bra.

She arches her back, like I knew she would, and I slide my fingers along the curve of her ribs until I hook a thumb under the fabric and find her nipple.

She hisses, shudders, and her thighs clench around me.

I roll her hard little bead between my fingers, gentle but insistent, and she rewards me with a groan so deep I feel it in my balls.

She retaliates by popping my button then slipping her hand inside, fingers greedy.

I buck up into her, and she circles me with her palm, grip just tight enough to make my eyes roll back.

She pumps me once, twice, slow at first, then faster, and it’s my turn to break the kiss, gasping for air as the world goes white around the edges.

“Still with me?” she purrs, stroking me harder, faster.

“Barely,” I admit, unable to feed her a line of bullshit, even a shred of bravado.

She nips my ear. “Good.”

The room smells like sweat, and salt, and heat. My hands go everywhere at once, her hair, her back, the hard curve of her thigh. She lets me explore, lets me map her body, her own hands never still, stroking closer to the edge.

At some point, she pulls back, just enough to stare at me, her hair wild and lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “You ready to tap out?” she teases, but her voice shakes.

“Not a fucking chance, Iz.”

I want to win, want her to lose control before I do, if only by seconds.

She leans in, forehead pressed to mine, and we just breathe together for a moment, hearts jackhammering against each other. Then she kisses me again, softer this time, but still hungry, still wanting. I match her, letting the kiss grow, letting it become something deeper and more urgent.

She slides her hand out of my pants and brings it up to my mouth, fingers glistening with precum. “Open,” she dares.

Fuck it, I do, sucking her fingers clean as she watches with hooded eyes. Then I reach up, grab the back of her neck, and pull her in for a kiss that is all tongue and teeth, desperate and raw. She melts against me, and I can feel her pulse thundering under her skin.

My other hand finds its way between her legs, fingers slipping under the edge of her underwear. She’s already wet, slick, and ready, and I groan into her mouth as I slide a finger inside.

She gasps, whole body tensing, her nails digging into my shoulders as I move us to the floor.

“Fuck,” she whispers as her back hits the wide, wooden slats.

I yank off her pants and finger-fuck the hell out of her as I grab the condom I brought from my pocket, tearing it open with my teeth. I have to stop fingering her to shove my jeans down past my ass and sheath my cock.

I look up at her, a slow smile spreading as I slide the head of my cock up and down her soaked slit. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

“Get to it.”

We fuck hard. Neither one of us giving in, neither one tapping out.

“So fucking good, Iz.”

“Yes, yes …”

“Fuck yes,” I hiss, trying not to come, willing myself not to fucking come.

Until she does …

Then I fucking lose it. I pound into her, making her come harder as I jet off my own release.

I bury my face in her shoulder and follow her over the edge. We shudder together, blasted with aftershocks … fucking aftershocks?

For a long moment, we just stay like that—bodies tangled, breath mixing, hearts slowing back to something like normal.

She’s the first to move, brushing the hair from her face as she pants out, “So, who’s buying snacks?”

“Take my wallet, black card, order Sydney’s whole damn shop.”

She snorts and drops her head back on my shoulder, laughter shaking through both of us. I wrap my arm tighter around her waist and look up at the ceiling like it might explain how the hell this girl—reluctant as hell—just knocked every last ounce of sense out of me.

That’s when I hear it.

A grumble. A low, old-man huff.

We both turn our heads just enough to spot Wile judging us from the hallway like we just desecrated the Ross family crest.

Iz lifts a brow. “I think we just scandalized your newest fan.”

“He’s not even blinking,” I whisper, a little shocked.

“He’s plotting.”

I grin, running my palm lazily down her spine. “I think he’s more disappointed than mad. Like he expected better positioning or a throw pillow.”

“Please don’t say the words ‘throw pillow’ in this post-orgasm haze.”

“Fair,” I say, voice low as I press a kiss to her temple. “But for the record, if I’m going to scandalize anyone, I’m glad it was with you.”

Her fingers trail across my chest. “Damn right.”

I reach down and squeeze her ass. “Got snacks?”