Wildfire (Maple Hills, #2)(10)

My hands grip her hips as she continues to move, my thumbs grazing gently over an exposed slither of skin between the band of her skirt and her top. Her hands sink into my hair, breasts pressing against my chest as her face gets closer to mine.

And then the timer blasts and I want to commit a murder for the first time in my life.

It’s like the spell lifts and we’re both instantly aware that we’re not alone. She sits back, breathing heavy as, thankfully, JJ suggests everyone takes a break to get new drinks and use the bathroom, saluting me as the area begins to clear.

My hands are still on her hips, her eyes are still locked on mine and there’s something there beneath the surface, something uncertain. Like she’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what. “Uh, good job.”

It’s clear some form of praise was what she was waiting for because her smile increases as she goes to stand but I tighten my grip, keeping her on my lap. “Can I have a minute?”

Her teeth sink into her lip as she nods, eyes bright. “Sure.”

James Madison, James Monroe, John Quincy Adams . . .





Chapter Four





AURORA


Straddling the lap of a hockey player is not the action of a woman trying to turn her life around.

To be honest, sitting on the boner of a total stranger is honestly not how I saw tonight going. Well, maybe, but in a way that would involve no clothes and certainly no audience. I forgot all about my summer self-improvement efforts the second I stepped foot in this house and that lack of commitment to the cause is exactly why I need time away from the temptations of Maple Hills.

I shouldn’t be this happy about a “good job,” but what can I say, I’m a girl that likes feedback. More than anything, I needed the reassurance I didn’t just make a fool of myself in front of most of the hockey team. It’s not my first rodeo, lap dance-wise, but it’s the first time with someone who now isn’t making eye contact with me. If I’m not looking at his face, I have to look at his body and the guy is essentially a slab of muscle.

“You won’t burst into flames if you look me in the eyes, you know,” I say softly, feeling a little insecure. Time seems to move slower in this house and, while there’s nothing unusual about two people being this close in a dark corner of a college party, the minute that’s passed feels like a lifetime. I can feel his steady breaths under the palms of my hands, his skin hot.

As suspected, heat rushes to the apples of his cheeks as his eyes meet mine again. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic he’s done several times since I met him earlier. First in the kitchen, then when he had to take his t-shirt off and everyone cheered at his perfectly sculpted body and now while we wait.

“Listen, this isn’t working. You’re too fucking hot and the presidents aren’t helping, I’ve moved on to Stanley Cup winners but with you just here,” he gestures to my thighs spread across him, “looking like that,” he gestures up my body, “it’s going to take forever.”

You’re too fucking hot.

The compliment floods my system, melting me, and the vulnerability from ten seconds ago dissipates into nothing as the validation seeps into my system like a drug. It’s not that I’ve never been told I’m hot before, I have, but this guy seems tortured by it. Like he’ll never recover from it. Like I’m tipping point of his sanity and that is a feeling I could get addicted to.

My lips quirk as I desperately try to ignore my brain seeking more attention; it’s unreliable in the presence of men since it’s so easily impressed by mediocrity. “Presidents?” The blush spreads to the tips of his ears, something else about him I find incredibly endearing, like he wasn’t planning to share that little snippet of information. “How about you stand behind me until you’re good?”

“You’re an angel,” he sighs. “Sort of. That wasn’t very angelic, but you know what I mean. Thanks.”

He holds my hips, guiding me as I stand, the bulge in his pants unmissable even beneath the dark lighting in the den. I feel my skin flush as it registers quite how much I like his tight grip on me.

There isn’t the same energy when the game restarts and I’m too distracted by the man behind me to pay attention. It’s hard to concentrate on which block to pull when his arms are caging me in and he quietly whispers which ones to avoid in my ear. I particularly like when I bend toward the tower and my ass brushes against him, I swear I hear him groan.

Thanks to Russ’ guidance, my turn doesn’t pull down the tower, but I can’t pretend there isn’t a small part of me that wishes it would fall. The round passes by us without incident and, although there’s no reason for Russ to hide himself behind me anymore, he doesn’t move. I lean back, head resting against his chest and when his posture stiffens, I immediately start to move away from him. But his hands find my hips again and he pulls me back gently, his body more relaxed this time.

The sound of crashing blocks makes me jump and when I drag my attention back to the game, one of the guys is holding a block and staring at the pile on the table.

“Henry, you can’t just knock over the tower when you get bored,” one of the guys shouts.

“I didn’t,” Henry says. “Maybe I’m just not very good at Jenga.”