Skating the Line (San Francisco Strikers Book 2)

by Stephanie Kay

  She exhaled a laugh. “So not possible to imagine that right now,” she said, reaching down to scrape her nails over his nipples.

  His abs tightened as she leaned forward, switching the angle, and he rubbed against her clit, creating the friction they both craved.

  He let go of her ass, and gripped her hands, pushing her up so she was fully astride.

  “If you ever need help with push-ups like that, count me in,” she said, her voice breathy.

  His chuckle was strained as he watched her fingers trail down her body, his own body a tightly wrapped coil threatening to burst. Her fingers fluttered across her belly, and she paused just above her clit.

  “Don’t you dare stop,” he growled, knowing how much she loved when he did that. Fuck. He’d growl for her 24/7 if it meant watching her touch herself and surrender to her bliss.

  She gave him a wink before finally reaching her target. Her muscles clenched around his cock, milking him, as a moan escaped her lips.

  He sat up on his elbows, his gaze locked to where they were joined, where he could see her fingers pressing circles over her clit.

  He’d never watched anything as beautiful. Her flush spread across every inch of her body, her moans merging to pants as she pressed harder. He reached over to grab a pillow to prop his head up, and then anchored his hands on her hips again, thrusting into her, controlling their movements as she lost her rhythm.

  Expletives slipped through his lips as he watched her rotate her hips, her finger never leaving her clit. His control threatened to slip as each moan grew in volume. This. This is what he would commit to memory.

  She nibbled on her lower lip and met his gaze, her eyes glittering in the low light, her other hand dropping from her hair to her breast, squeezing the supple flesh as her thumb raked across her nipple, and she groaned low and long.

  “Yes,” he urged, as she broke eye contact and arched her back, her fingers still moving, her muscles spasming around him. He thrust into her one last time and she exploded around him with a cry.

  He quickly followed her over the edge. It was a leap he had no problem making, and as they floated back, and she dropped down to his chest, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and tucked her in close.

  “Oh my god, Ben. As soon as I can feel my toes, we are so doing that again,” she panted.

  “Promises, promises.” His voice was just as husky as hers.

  This was what he’d waited for. And it’d been worth every interruption, every false start they’d had to get to this moment. He wasn’t going to let it—or her—go anytime soon.

  Chapter 15

  I’m a morning girl and soaking in the sunrises around the world is a pastime of mine. Wake up with the world. This morning I’m waking up with Stonehenge, and it’s one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve seen. The bright light bouncing off the ancient stone pillars, peeking around the edges. No matter what your religion or beliefs, it’s a spiritual event that you don’t want to miss by hitting the snooze button.

  ~ Adventurous Amanda, October 2013

  She wasn’t sure what had woken her—the smell of coffee or the sound of a guitar being played somewhere in his condo. She stretched, working the soreness out of muscles she hadn’t used in ages. Maybe hadn’t known existed. He’d worshipped every inch of her, and she’d gladly returned the favor multiple times last night.

  Fuck. He was good at leaving her boneless and satisfied. She could kill her mother for delaying this bliss. Along with every other roadblock that had popped up along the way. But last night had been worth the wait.

  She ran her hand along the cooling sheet. How long had he been up? She’d wanted to wake him with her mouth on his cock, followed by him inside her for the fourth—or was it fifth—time.

  His stamina was amazing. Another point to hockey. She shivered at the memory of his powerful body moving over her, his shoulders bunching as he plunged in and out of her, never finishing before her.

  He’d claimed he wouldn’t be a gentleman last night, but he’d been a startling mixture of pure power and tenderness wrapped up in perfection.

  She sighed. She was never like this. And she wanted him again. Would that ever wane? Shuddering at that awful thought, she threw back the sheet and got out of bed. Spotting a Strikers t-shirt on the edge of a chair, she grabbed it and slipped it on. It held the faint scent of him, and desire spiked through her body as she made her way down the hall and toward the music.

  At the edge of the living room, she stopped. He sat with his back to her—his gloriously naked back—as he hummed along with the guitar, his upper back shifting and tensing as he strummed the chords.

  Sweet Jesus. He was gorgeous.

  He had on a pair of sleep pants, the waistband low enough for her to glimpse the twin dimples just above his ass. The ink on one arm swirled and danced as he played. It was mesmerizing.

  She finally looked around the living room. She’d been otherwise occupied last night. She bit her lip, resisting the urge to remove the guitar from his hands and jump into his lap so he could strum her instead of the instrument.

  Massive windows covered most of one wall, the view just as amazing in here as in his bedroom. Gauzy curtains were pulled back, letting the sunlight in to glint in his hair. That soft hair that she wanted to plunge her fingers in again. To hear that soft groan he made when she tugged his hair and scraped her nails over his scalp.

  She edged closer, not wanting to disturb him, because the song he was playing was beautiful, but she couldn’t place it. And he was playing acoustic. She’d only heard him on his electric guitar at the club. There was something so secret, so intimate, with an acoustic guitar. No bells and whistles to add to the sound, just him and a perfectly shaped piece of wood.

  When her grandfather had played his acoustic, she’d watched him for hours. He’d made up songs for her, and she’d sung along, unable to truly carry a tune, but he’d still encouraged her. She bit back her smile at the memory. He must’ve loved Ben. It was crazy to think that Ben had met her grandfather a few times before he’d passed, and they’d played together. Her heart squeezed, wishing she’d been around to see that. She’d never dwelled on the memories she didn’t have of her family due to her traveling, until now.

  And then the music stopped, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “Hey,” he said, flashing her a brilliant smile that lit up his entire face. She had to stop herself from skipping over to him.

  “Morning,” she said, her voice a little scratchy, partially from sleep, and partially from her recent trip down memory lane.

  “You okay?” he asked, as he set the guitar aside and rose, holding out his hand to her.

  She did not skip.

  It was close.

  He intertwined his fingers with hers and tugged her close, his lips barely touching hers. “I like you in my shirt,” he said. She stared at his smile before looking up into his eyes. His gorgeous brown eyes. This close up, she spotted tiny flecks of gold.

  “I like you out of yours,” she shot back.

  “Someone’s feisty in the morning,” he said, brushing his lips across hers in a brief caress—too brief, as he pulled back, and grinned.

  “And someone’s a tease,” she pouted before sealing her lips with his, swallowing his chuckle, and gripping his waist. She may have slipped her hand under the waistband to squeeze his ass.

  Who could blame her? She could bounce a quarter off that splendid bit of flesh.

  She parted her lips when his tongue nudged at her mouth, and deepened the kiss, her moan swallowed up by him as he consumed her.

  He hoisted her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and she lost her grip on his ass. Dammit.

  And then he dropped her on the extra deep couch, his body a welcome weight as he settled on top of her.

  “Now this is a good morning,” she whispered against his lips as he woke her up properly.

  ***

  An hour later, she was sprawled out on top o
f him, his hand trailing lazily down her spine, her breathing finally returning to normal.

  “I never do this on game day,” he said.

  “Do what?” she asked, propping her head up to look at him.

  “Have sex on game days. It’s never really been an issue before,” he said, and shrugged, his hand still skating down her back.

  “You broke a superstition for me? I feel honored.” She wasn’t sure how to take that but the butterflies in her belly ramped up. They never really talked about his superstitions, but even she knew that breaking one was a big deal.

  “I’d rather you feel satisfied,” he said, grinning at her, that damn dimple shooting desire through her body.

  “Oh, I am. So no sex on game days, huh. Not sure I’m on board with that.”

  “How about no sex twelve hours before a game? That’s almost a full day.”

  She glanced at the clock. “It’s eight thirty and your game is at seven.”

  “Technically, we start closer to seven fifteen, so that’s almost eleven hours.”

  She dropped her head, kissing the spot where his neck and shoulder met. “So, no more until tonight?” she whispered, feeling his erection harden beneath her. She couldn’t resist rocking her hips.

  “You’re playing with fire,” he growled. “And if we lose tonight, it’s on you. Making a hockey player break his superstitions is dangerous,” he said, his hands cupping her ass and holding her to his body.

  “You’re not playing fair,” she groaned.

  “Neither are you, but I’ll make it worth your while tonight.”

  “I bet nine hours is sufficient.”

  His chuckle was pained. “You are trouble.” He lightly smacked her ass. “How about I make breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry for food.” But her stomach grumbled before she could finish her statement. Traitor.

  He chuckled, his body shaking beneath hers. “You were saying?”

  “Fine. I guess I could eat. We did burn a lot of calories in the last twelve hours,” she said, poking his hard abs. Rock freaking solid.

  He grabbed her hand, pulling it up to his mouth and nibbled on her fingers. “I’m always hungry.” His eyes darkened, and she knew he wasn’t interested in food.

  And, holy hell, was he amazing at that. His tongue did this little thing…

  “Bet you’re not thinking about food anymore,” he teased.

  “Stop tormenting me. You’re the one with the time constraint,” she muttered. And he said she was feisty this morning.

  “Payback for all the tormenting you’ve done in the last few months.”

  “What?” She pulled back in mock horror, but couldn’t fight her grin.

  “You knew exactly what you were doing to me.”

  “Not my fault you took forever to follow through,” she teased. He pulled her down for a quick and bruising kiss.

  “Speaking of interruptions, didn’t your mom offer to make us pancakes? Maybe we should head over there.”

  “Oh god, that is so not funny,” she groaned, then reached down to tweak his nipple.

  He shifted away from her. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

  While this teasing side of Ben was adorable, she had no desire to talk about her mother with him.

  “You know you can talk to me about anything,” he said.

  “I know. I just don’t want to ruin our morning. Do you have eggs?”

  He nodded, question still in his gaze, but she brushed it aside, knowing it had nothing to do with her food inquiry.

  “Great. I’ll make us omelets. And you have to serenade me,” she said, climbing off of him and snagging the shirt he’d tossed on a nearby chair.

  “Serenade you? I’m not really much of a singer,” he said.

  “Just play. It’s super hot. You’d get all the ladies if they knew about your hidden talents,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “Wait. Are we talking about my musical abilities or the other things I like to do with my fingers?” he teased, his eyes darkening. A blush stained his cheeks, as if he was surprised he’d actually said it.

  Fuck. That was adorable.

  “Stop distracting me. I’m starving,” she muttered, then kissed him one last time, skirting around those questing fingers to head into the kitchen.

  His chuckle followed in her wake, and then he started playing. It was the same song that he’d been playing when she’d woken up. Then he started to sing, just barely over a hum. It was soft and beautiful.

  She moved around the kitchen, grabbing what she needed. She wasn’t a gourmet chef, but she made do. They could’ve gone out for breakfast, but as she whisked the eggs and listened to him play, she had no desire to step foot out of this condo anytime soon.

  “I think I’ve heard that song before, but I can’t place it,” she said.

  “It’s Zeppelin. ‘The Rain Song,’” he said.

  “Do you ever play it at the club?”

  “It’s not really blues, and it’s one of the only songs that has this specific tuning. You have to tune up a step. I’d need time to adjust or another guitar just to play this song,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s really beautiful,” she said, resisting the urge to either fan herself because she was currently on fire, or drop her spatula and climb into his lap.

  Did he realize how incredibly attractive he was in that moment? Bare chest, ink swirling down one arm, his bare feet poking out from the bottom of his sleep pants, a guitar in his lap, one hand resting against the body of the instrument as he paused to explain. His musical knowledge only added to his delectableness.

  She bit the inside of her cheek and focused on the eggs. She wanted to climb back into his lap. Stupid superstitions. She was still having difficulty believing he’d broken one for her.

  He gripped his guitar. It was the only thing keeping him anchored to the couch when what he wanted to do was toss his instrument aside—not that he’d ever do that—and pull her into his lap again. Screw breakfast.

  She puttered around his kitchen, making breakfast in one of his soft t-shirts that unfortunately, due to their size differences, ended way too low on her body. He bit back the urge to rip it off of her.

  But it wasn’t just how enticing she looked in his clothes, it was how comfortable she looked in his home. He got a glimpse of what he could have, permanently. And he wanted it. Ached for it. Hadn’t known what he was missing until she’d slammed into his life, a whirlwind of energy.

  “Why did you stop playing?” she called out. “If I’m cooking, you’re serenading.”

  He chuckled, then loosened his hold on the fret board, and started playing again.

  “It’s almost haunting,” she said as he reached the first chorus.

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Why?”

  “My dad used to play it for my mom. He learned it from his dad when he was growing up. They loved Zeppelin and raised me on blues and rock from the sixties and seventies. Back when music was good,” he said.

  “Hey. There’s still great music.”

  “Not like the old stuff.” He chuckled. “Probably why I hang out with the guys in the club band.”

  “Does your dad ever come to watch you play at the club?” she asked, walking out of the kitchen with two plates and setting them down on the coffee table. “Thought we could eat in here. You know, so you can still play for me.”

  His laugh was soft. “Nice priorities.”

  She shot him a smile. “You know it.”

  “And, no. He’s back home in Minnesota, but even if he was here, he wouldn’t come and watch. I don’t think he’s picked up a guitar since my mom passed. It was their thing. She’d sing along while he played.”

  He read sadness in her gaze. “My grandparents were like that, too.”

  “Except that your grandfather still played after your grandmother died.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “We all grieve differently. It was a comfort for my grandfather
to be surrounded by the people he loved and in a place that held strong memories of her.”

  “Yeah. My dad just shut down. It’s awful, but a part of him died when she did.” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to depress the mood this morning.”

  “No. I want to know what’s going on. You know this is more than just a hookup, right?” There was a wariness in her eyes that he didn’t expect, like she wasn’t one hundred percent confident in his answer. It was his turn to squeeze her hand.

  “Yes, I know that. This was never going to be a one and done situation.”

  She gave him a soft smile and took in a breath. Holy shit. She was actually nervous.

  He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips, tugging her closer to him on the couch. Her fork clattered to the table and she wrapped her arms around his neck, shifting into his lap.

  He kissed her, needing her lips against his, before finally pulling away. “Stop tempting me. No more sex until tonight.”

  She laughed. “You started it.”

  “Pretty sure you climbed into my lap.”

  “Pretty sure you kissed me while I was trying to eat my breakfast.” She pressed another kiss to his lips. “But, food is overrated,” she said, and then her stomach growled, and he couldn’t hide his laugh.

  “Sounds like your body disagrees,” he said.

  “Oh shut up,” she said, scooting off of his lap and cutting off a bite of omelet.

  “This is really good,” he said, taking his own bite. “Perfect ratio of cheese, veggies, and eggs.”

  “Figured you weren’t the type who enjoyed globs of delicious cheese, so I put most of it in mine,” she said, and then smirked, before shoveling in another bite.

  “Thanks.” He ignored the thrill that burst inside of him knowing that she thought about that stuff. What he might not eat during the season, or how conscious he was of his diet. That she paid attention. That she cared.

  Which said horrible things about his dating past, that her consideration was unfamiliar.

  “Do you eat good carbs during the off-season?” she asked, pulling him from thoughts he was in no mood to have.