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CHAPTER THIRTY

Marissa

Dozer’s body is sculpted by the gods. I mean, I knew he was well-built and muscular—he’s a fucking professional hockey player, after all. But knowing that and experiencing that are two totally different things.

Even though I led the way to the couch, he’s the one who sits first, catching my fingertips and drawing me close, patting his leg to indicate he wants me on top of him and guiding me so I’m straddling him. He shoves the coffee table farther away with his foot once I’m in place so he can slouch down on the couch more, lining up the hard ridge in his pants with my center.

“Jesus,” I hiss as he presses up against me.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, his fingers settling lightly on the back of my neck, exerting the slightest amount of pressure to show he wants me to kiss him.

So I do. Because why wouldn’t I?

This is how I would’ve preferred our last movie night to end, after all. If he’s going to kiss me, he needs to do it right.

And boy, does he ever. If our kiss in his truck was amazing, this takes kisses to another level of perfection. I sink into him, letting him support my weight, enjoying the way he can’t seem to get enough of me, his hands roaming, squeezing, caressing, gripping my hips and rocking me against him so hard I gasp, the combined pressure of his dick and the seam of my jeans so tantalizing but nowhere near enough.

One of his hands moves up, slipping beneath the fabric of my shirt, and his palm against my bare skin is electric, sending sparks zipping through my blood stream. I need more. More than just his hand on my skin. I want to feel him too.

Reaching for his waist, I ruck up the fabric of his shirt, skimming my fingers along the taught muscles of his abdomen, and he shivers at the contact, reaching down to help me pull the shirt up and out of the way so I can touch him. Then he does the same, sliding both hands beneath my shirt, his fingers caressing my skin.

It’s still not enough, though. Nowhere near enough.

Breaking the kiss, I sit back on his thighs and yank my shirt off. His eyes are glued to my chest, but his face looks reverent, like I’m something sacred and beautiful and he’s here to worship.

“God, Marissa,” he breathes, his words only giving more credence to the way he’s looking at me.

Then his eyes meet mine again, dark and fathomless in the low light from his kitchen spilling into the living room, and he’s reaching for me, pulling me down as he shifts sideways so we’re lying on the couch, me draped over his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, moving my hair out of my face and drinking me in. “I could stare at you all night.”

I smile at his words, but I want more than just staring. “I want to feel you,” I murmur, tugging at his shirt some more. Once it’s up to his ribs, he curls up and pulls the whole thing off over his head, leaving his chest bare to me for the first time.

Sitting up, I trace the bumps and ridges of his muscles, running my fingers through the sparse hair sprinkled across his pecs and down his midline, thickening below his belly button. His breath hisses on a sharp inhale when my fingers stray down that far, and when I glance up at his face, his eyes are hooded, the lids heavy as he watches me. “Can we go to the bedroom?” he asks, the question sounding almost tortured.

And I love that he’s asking. That he’s not assuming anything, even though I’m here, in his condo, shirtless on his lap. Even so, he wants to make sure I’m okay, that I want this too.

I dip my chin in a nod and start to climb off. But before I can, he jackknifes up to sitting, his hands gripping my ass. “Hang on,” he commands, voice gruff, and I barely have time to throw my arms around his shoulders before he’s scooting to the edge of the couch and standing. I wrap my legs around his waist, hanging on for dear life, and he just grins at me and gives me a quick kiss. “I got you,” he tells me, and somehow it feels like it means more than just him carrying me to his room.

He’s got me. In every way that matters.

It’s hard to believe it at this point. So many people—men—have told me essentially the same thing, but none of them have ever meant it.

Dozer’s different, though. He’s never been in this to get in my pants. Even tonight, he told me that he’d be happy to just be my friend, wanting me for me, not because I’m pretty and make him feel more like a man or because he thinks it’d be fun to capture an independent woman and break her down until she’s a shell of her former self. Or clip her wings before she ever realizes she was born to fly.

No, Dozer wants to support me. To let me be myself, to listen to me ramble about cars, to watch me finish my projects and celebrate them with me. To encourage me to go after the one I’ve been dreaming of creating all along.

So I’ll let myself trust. A little. To start. The tentative steps you take when you’re not sure something will support your weight.

At the very least, I’ll let him have me tonight.

He carries me to his bedroom like I weigh almost nothing, and I can’t help grinning like an idiot the whole way, laughing as he falls onto the bed still holding me. He laughs too, and I can’t help caressing his face, his stubble prickly under my hand, wanting to capture this moment in my memory for all time. “I love your smile,” I say without thinking.

But if my use of the L word gives him pause, he doesn’t show it. “Thank you,” he murmurs, smoothing my hair back. “I love your smile too.”

Then he rolls me under him, his mouth finding mine, his arms still wrapped around me and holding me close. When he breaks away from the kiss, it’s to pepper kisses down my neck and chest. He lifts up when he gets to the simple black satin of my bra, one hand coming free to caress the edge of it. His eyes meet mine as he tugs the cup down slowly, giving me plenty of time to object if I want to. When I don’t, his chest expands with a deep breath and he drops his eyes, watching his thumb draw lazy circles around my nipple, then move back and forth across it, drawing it up to a hard point.

With one last glance at my face, he leans over and sucks my nipple into his mouth. I gasp, my back arching involuntarily at the shocking contact of the wet heat of his mouth on my cool skin. He plays with my nipple with his tongue, the edge of his teeth sinking in until I gasp, and he eases off, lifting his head and surveying his handiwork before turning to give my other nipple the same attention. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he reaches behind me and undoes my bra, pulling the straps down my arms and tossing it somewhere behind him.

Once we’re both completely topless, he lays himself over me again, letting out a sigh as our skin makes contact. Then he kisses me until I’m writhing beneath him, my feet planted on the bed, my hips rocking against him, needing more friction than I can possibly get like this.

For his part, he’s grinding into me, seeming to relish how long he’s drawing out the anticipation. When he finally pushes himself up and reaches for the waist of my pants, he chuckles at my sigh of relief and muttered, “Thank Christ.”

He strips off my pants, tossing them away as well, then stands and undoes his own pants, his eyes never leaving me. At least not until he moves to a dresser in the corner of his room where he turns his back to me and rummages through a drawer for a second.

Propping my head on my hand, I take advantage of the brief pause to look at him again. The only light is coming from the open door, a wedge of golden lamplight illuminating the strong muscles of his back and shoulders. It’s crazy to think that he’s mine …

Because that’s what we decided, right? That we’re together now? No more pretending to be just friends, no more ignoring our clearly overwhelming attraction, no more pretending we don’t want relationships when all we really want is to be with each other.

I mentally review our conversation to convince myself that’s what’s happening, but I’m once again distracted by a half-naked Dozer turning to me with a condom packet in hand, his pants undone and hanging loose at his trim waist.

God, he’s beautiful.

One corner of his mouth quirks up when he sees me staring at him. Stepping closer, he tosses the condom packet on the bed, then does a little tease, hooking his thumbs in the waist of his underwear and tugging them down, then back up, as though the tight white fabric does much of anything to hide the raging erection behind it.

I can’t help giggling at his antics, though, and with a wide grin on his face, he finally strips out of the rest of his clothes, and I get to see him in all his glory. He’s a work of art, all carved muscle and sinew, the V of his hips leading to the proud erection standing up and beckoning to me.

He steps closer to the bed, and I reach for him, my hand caressing his strong thigh as he climbs on the bed with me, gathering me to him and burying his face in the crook of my neck. “I don’t think I’m going to last long if you’re looking at me like that,” he whispers against my skin, then nips it, making me gasp before soothing the sting with his lips and tongue. Looking me in the face, he shakes his head. “And if you keep making those noises, I’ll be done before I’m even inside you.”

Chuckling, I hitch a leg over his thigh. “Good thing we have all night.”

His eyebrows arch at the latent challenge in my words, then he breaks out in a wide grin. “I guess it is, isn’t it?”