Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(43)

“You were already at the trails. Plus, you were a little short with me on the phone,” she added with an accusing look. He flushed a little. He’d definitely been short. But that had been deliberate. He’d been afraid if he’d stayed on the line longer, he’d have said something embarrassing.

Like . . . I miss you.

Jesus, he was a mess.

They sat a moment longer in silence, until he couldn’t take it any more. “Today’s a wash, right?”

“Mmm,” she said, nodding, looking at the closed front door.

“It’s not your day, or my day.”

“Mmm.”

He faced her. “What the hell does ‘mmm’ mean?”

She turned her head to look at him, their mouths inches apart. There was an amused gleam in her eyes as she raised one brow. “Mmm.”

He’d show her “mmm.” He cupped the back of her head and crushed his mouth down on hers.

*

She was seeing stars. First, she thought it was because their lips had met with such an explosive collision, they were from the pain. But no, as her lips moved with his, opened, parted to let his tongue dance inside, she realized there was no pain.

Then her lungs started to burn, and she realized she’d been unconsciously holding her breath. She tore away and gasped for air, one hand clutched to her chest. How the hell did he do that? Quite literally rob her of air?

“Hey, hey.” He rubbed soothingly over her back. “What’s going on? Are you getting sick? Is that why you’re having trouble breathing? Asthma. Do you have asthma? An inhaler?”

The actual answer—you took my breath away—was so corny and pathetic she wouldn’t even let herself think it again. So she fought for indifferent and went with, “Eh.” It was all she could choke out while gulping in new, life-giving breaths.

“You’re starting to freak me out. Should I take you to the ER or some clinic or something? Maybe it’s bronchitis.” His face pulled in such an expression of concern, she couldn’t hold back the smile.

“It’s not bronchitis,” she said quietly. “It’s stupidity. I shouldn’t have sprinted earlier, and I’m still paying for it now.” When he raised a brow, she added sheepishly, “I forgot to breathe when you kissed me.”

He absorbed that for a moment. Then a proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Made you forget to breathe, huh? That’s a new one to add to my resume.”

She kicked at him, but he pushed her flat to the bed and pinned her easily. She didn’t bother fighting. If he wasn’t in the mood to let her go, he wouldn’t. And at this position, she could feel his erection pressing heavily against her hip.

“You’re sure you’re not sick?”

She nodded, forcing her lungs to work slowly, methodically, to pull in the air. No more gulping like a landed trout.

“And I didn’t hurt you.”

She shook her head.

“Then you’re going to lie there while I make sure you’re okay.” One large hand skimmed down her ribcage, then back up to rest on her sternum. “I won’t be responsible for you keeling over.”

“I’m not going to—” She nearly bit the finger he pressed against her lips, but just sighed instead and kept breathing deeply. And really, she did have her breath back . . . mostly. But the deep breathing, slow and steady, was relaxing her. Maybe this was what people did during yoga. Was the breathing why everyone carrying yoga mats looked high on endorphins?

“Just lie still.”

She shook her head and tried to sit up. “I’ve got my breath, I’m okay. Just embarrassed.”

He didn’t bother asking her again, just pushed gently until she was flat on her back, her feet now suspended off the floor. He leveled his body over hers, keeping his weight on his knees and forearms. The position was sensual, and yet not quite sexual. His eyes were filled with concern, and his brown hair flopped across his forehead as he examined her face.

“You seem like you’re okay. How many fingers am I holding up?”

She paused, waited, then smiled. “That would be none, because your hand is still on my chest.”

He shifted until the guilty hand cupped her breast through her T-shirt. “How many fingers now?”

She moaned a little while he pinched her nipple. “Feels like five,” she breathed.

“Passed the test.” He kissed her again, and she slipped into the warm, waiting waters of lust with him. Ignoring responsibility, journalistic integrity, and anything else the outside world could throw at them, she imagined them wrapped in a cocoon of their own making.

His tongue stroked hers gently, his hand roaming between her breasts, running up to cup her cheek, then back down again to lift her shirt. But he didn’t pull it off all the way. He bunched it up around her breasts, keeping them hidden still. His mouth left hers and cruised down to her stomach, where his tongue began to trace a pattern.

She laughed. “What are you doing?”

“Connect the dots.” He lapped a long line under her belly button. “It’s my new favorite game.”

“Freckles,” she grumbled. “Kids used to tease me in school. Said I never actually tanned, my freckles just ran together in the summer.”

He smiled against her stomach and took a quick nip that made her suck in her breath. “I love them. It was the first thing I noticed about you.”