“Me too,” he says quietly, and then pushes me back onto the bed. His head dips and his mouth runs over my neck while his hands roam over my body.
I slip my fingers in his hair and sigh over all of the amazing feelings this man brings to my doorstep. Not just feelings of body, but feelings of spirit. I’m so conflicted because he makes me want so much more, and yet how could I ever take that risk? This is just all too new for me right now to put my entire career and reputation on the line.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he murmurs as he kisses along my collarbone, placing a kiss in between each word.
“What’s that?”
“I invited Max to your yoga class on Friday,” he says casually as he moves down my chest.
My fingers tighten in his hair and I tug to pull his face up. I lift my own head from the pillow and look down at him with wary eyes. “You did what?”
“Invited Max to yoga on Friday. He’s a goalie. He’s recovered from his injury. It’s a great workout.”
I just blink at him in astonishment. “O-k-a-a-y.”
“Is that a problem?” he asks with serious eyes. “Because it’s just yoga. It’s not like we’re fucking in the studio or anything.”
I shake my head, immediately dismissing that thought. Having Max come to yoga would be a great thing for him, and it would actually be better to have both goalies there. That would help dispel any notions that Ryker was getting extra attention from me.
Rubbing my thumbs along his scalp, I smile at him. “I’m just surprised you’d offer to help him. He’s your main competition for the starting goalie slot.”
I’m immediately shamed by the chastising look Ryker gives me, but he follows it up with a quick smile. “Come on, Gray. It’s a team sport, not individual. God forbid something happens to me, we need Max strong.”
And then I truly understand my attraction to Ryker. He is an unbelievably good man. He’s a team player all the way. He wants the greater good for the whole rather than for the individual.
That quality is sexy as hell, makes my heart flippity flop all over the place, and makes me really, really want to give him another blow job.
“You’re eyes just turned really hot,” he says as he inches his way up my body. I can feel his erection pressing into my hip. “Whatcha thinking?”
“About sucking your cock,” I tell him coyly.
He grins at me devilishly, leans down, and nips my lower lip with his teeth. “Okay,” he says exuberantly, but then pushes up and rolls away. When his feet hit the floor, he reaches into the drawer of his bedside table and turns to me with a little gift bag in his hand. “But I wanted to give this to you first.
I sit up straight in the bed, pulling the sheet up and over my breasts, where I clutch at the cotton material with a raw feeling of vulnerability.
He got me a gift.
A Christmas gift if the bright red paper and green bow is any indication.
Ryker Evans stands there gloriously naked, completely unabashed with his huge erection pointed outward…holding out a Christmas gift for me. He looks like a kid when he climbs back onto the bed, settles in beside me, and snatches the sheet away.
“Quit covering your tits,” he teases me as he hands me the bag. “I want them always on display around me.”
Is that my hand shaking as I reach out to take the bag?
I’m equal parts overwhelmed with happiness and dismay. Beyond happy, actually, that he thought of me in such a kind and sensitive way. I’ve never gotten gifts for Christmas beyond what my father and I exchange, and there is something about Ryker taking the time to buy me something that sets off all of my hormonal bells. But I’m dismayed just as much because I didn’t even think to get him something. What does that say about me?
Does it mean that we are truly not aligned with the boundaries of this relationship and where it could possibly go? I have no clue, because honestly…I don’t want to think about it. I’m so firmly entrenched in the mindset that he needs to be my little secret that I can’t see past that.
“You look like you’re holding a snake in your hand,” Ryker says, and my eyes drag up slowly.
I wince apologetically and give him a tremulous smile. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“So what,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, and then nudges me with his knee. “Open it.”
I reach inside the bag and pull out a square jewelry box covered in red velvet. My heart starts skittering out of control, and I have to believe that there is some type of phenomenon that occurs in a woman’s body when she’s presented with a jewelry box.
Flipping the lid open, I see two small silver bracelet charms—or maybe white gold—I can’t tell. One is a goalie mask and the other is the Olympic rings. I rub my finger over them for a moment, unbelievably choked up over how perfect this gift is.
“I noticed you don’t wear much jewelry but that you do have a charm bracelet. I saw a tornado, which I assume represents the Cold Fury; interlocking hearts, which I’m betting represents your dad; and a pair of high-heeled shoes, which I’m assuming means you’re just a woman who loves shoes.”
My eyes rise to his, blinking hard to dispel the sting. He reaches out and chucks me under the chin, lightening the moment. “But I didn’t see anything that represented you as a hockey player, and that is a very important part of your life. So I figured these would be nice to add.”