“Did I hurt you?” she teased as he rubbed his ribs where her elbow had slightly jabbed him.
He looked up at her with a playful look. “No. I’m concerned about your understanding of the sport. You’re playing aggressively and incorrectly.”
She smirked. “Says the man who can’t get control of the ball.”
“The trash talk would be cuter if you hadn’t just bruised my ribs. Can you take instruction from me or do we need a pro?”
“Wait, you’re willing to admit there’s a superior squash player somewhere in the world? I’m shocked.”
“Squash isn’t my job.”
“Why didn’t you go pro?”
“The competitive squash world is surprisingly competitive. It also lacks the prestige of being CEO of my grandfather’s company.”
“So, it’s not because you suck at squash?” she kidded.
“I assure you that if anyone in this court sucks at squash, it’s you.”
“Is that how you get in all the ladies’ pants, big shot?”
“I’ve never taken a woman to the squash court before.”
“That’s a relief. If this is one of your signature date moves, you got no game,” she laughed.
“I got no game?” He wanted to laugh. But he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how she’d startled him with that ridiculous declaration. “I’ll have you know, I’ve got plenty of game.”
Luke tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertips just brushing the soft skin beneath her ear. He felt her tremble, saw the spark in her eye and knew her knees had gone weak at his expert touch.
“See? Game,” he said smugly.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she said, trying to seem unaffected, but the rasp of her breathy voice betrayed her.
“I can see the pulse fluttering in your neck. It’s no good pretending. Your body gives everything away.”
“Of course, my pulse kicked up. Someone grabbed my head. It’s fight or flight.”
Her movements belied her words. She took a half step nearer to him, until he could feel the heat of her body, see the frantic thumping of her heart as it wrinkled her pink top. Her cheeks blazed with color and not merely from the exertion of her version of squash. She was alive in his hands, the pounding heat of her, the rise and fall of her chest as she panted, the curve of one lock of loose hair that had caught in the corner of her parted lips. He held her face in both his hands.
She amazed him, the way the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw fit in the cup of his palm, the way her eyelashes brushed his thumb when she blinked. He felt the jolt of that featherlight touch, the accidental intimacy of it, straight through to the core of him.
A line seemed to run from that point where her lashes grazed his thumb to something in his gut, something that clenched till he was nearly breathless. His mouth went dry with lust and something more. It was the something more that he chose not to think about too closely.
He wanted her. He struggled to breathe with wanting her so much. He could have her now, he knew. Right here in the gym, in the private squash court, against that wall behind her if he wanted. But he wouldn’t. Not because he was above such semi-public displays, such urgent rutting. But because it was Paige, and for some reason, that mattered. It mattered that he had a bed to lay her on, and quiet and time enough to explore her. He would not have her this first time up against a cinderblock wall in a room that was too warm and smelled of lemon floor polish and old sweat. He nearly scoffed in disgust at the thought, even as he cradled her face in his hands and imagined which of fifty ways he would kiss her first.
“So, are you fighting or flying now?” he challenged.
“It feels like I’m flying. Or falling,” she admitted, her voice so soft, so breathy he couldn’t be sure he’d heard her right.
“I’ll catch you,” he said against her lips.
Paige’s lips were so soft, so pliant under his, her fleshy lower lip clinging to his upper one. The tip of his tongue darted out to touch her upper lip. He felt a primal surge of pleasure at licking her lip, at sliding his tongue along the seam of her full lips. He felt like he was claiming her, as if the rush of her body pressing into his, her arms about his neck spoke of some physical possession.
His fingers trailed from her face to her throat, feeling every whimper of response in her until he wrapped his arms around her waist. Her hands at the back of his neck felt like firebrands, marking him with her fingerprints. He gathered her roughly into his arms, hauling her up against the wall of his muscled chest. He knew he lifted her off her toes, knew when he held the weight of her in his arms. She wasn’t light or inconsequential—there was a strength and solidness to her that he loved holding in his arms.
He liked that he could pick her up and hold her this way, that she somehow trusted him enough to hang on and not kick and protest. He kissed her more, deeper, until she parted her lips for him. He groaned, unable to help himself. He drove his tongue into her, slaking his need for her in the curves of her wet mouth.
Luke felt the hardening, the clamp of tightness nearly painful as her thigh rubbed against his length. As if she knew, he felt her smile against his lips as she slid her tongue into his mouth.