Page 123 of Meant for Mayhem

Her mystery novel rested closed on her lap, and those grey eyes were fixed on me, dark and intent, watching me the whole time. A slow flush colored her cheeks.

“Is this what you read every night?” I asked, voice rougher than I intended.

“Most nights,” she said softly. “Yeah.”

I let out a low breath and gestured toward my lap, where the evidence was now impossible to hide. “Do you get this turned on while you read?”

Her gaze dropped, then lifted again, meeting mine without flinching. “Sometimes.”

The air between us thickened like it had after every game lately. But this time, there was no crowd roaring, no post-game adrenaline, no excuse to blame this on anything but the truth.

I wanted her.

She wanted me.

And we’d been circling this for weeks.

I set the book down. “Shannon.”

She swallowed. “Yeah?”

I reached over, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “Can I kiss you?”

For a second I thought she might overthink it, but then she whispered, “Okay.”

That was all I needed.

I moved over her on the wide couch, one knee settling between hers, until she was lying back beneath me. Her hands came up to my chest, not pushing away but curling into my shirt like she needed something to hold on to. We were both breathing harder now, chests rising and falling in the same ragged rhythm. I looked down into her eyes, close enough to see the flecks of blue in the grey, and something in my chest cracked open.

I couldn’t believe my life had led here—to this woman, this moment I didn’t deserve. The last few months were a living hell, but I didn’t regret a single thing that brought me right here, in her arms.

So I kissed her.

It started slow, almost careful, but the second her tongue brushed mine, the heat from the book roared to life between us. I deepened it, tasting her, chasing the little sounds she made when I sucked on her bottom lip.

In the scene I’d read, the hero had mapped her body with his hands first, slow and deliberate, so I did the same.

My palm skimmed down her side, over the curve of her waist, then back up under the hem of her dress. She shifted restlessly under me, her warm skin soft to the touch. When my fingers traced the edge of her panties, she shivered and arched into me.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” I murmured against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her throat.

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Thank god.”

We stayed on the couch longer than I planned—hands and mouths everywhere, learning each other the way we hadn’t before. This wasn’t so much chasing release as it was being in this moment together.

I undid the buttons on the front of her dress, tasting the swell of her breasts, while she worked my shirt open and explored my chest.

Every gasp, every whispered “yes,” every roll of her hips against mine wound me tighter.

But this couch was too small for the plans I had for her. I stood, scooping her up in one smooth motion. She let out a surprised laugh that turned into a moan when I kissed her again, carrying her down the hall to my bedroom. I kicked the door shut behind us and tossed her gently onto the bed.

She bounced once, dark hair fanned out across my cream sheets, lips swollen, eyes bright. I let my shirt fall to the floor, then climbed over her and reached for the zipper at her side until the dress slid away.

Maybe I should have seen it coming, but the sight of that same red lingerie set I’d seen dangling from a hedge weeks ago undid the last of my control. Red lace and sheer panels hugged her body like it was made for her—tiny bows at the hips, the bra pushing her breasts up so far, my mouth went dry.

“Fuck, Shannon,” I breathed.