Celi-Bet (Solomon Brothers #2) by Leslie North

Author:Leslie North [North, Leslie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction, Contemporary Women, Romance, New Adult & College, Sports, Contemporary Fiction
Amazon: B01MRKZ158
Published: 2016-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

9

Willow had imagined Chase’s kiss before—strong and steady, not given to showy moves or unnecessary risks, his play on the court but better. He would taste exceptional, unattainable, like a forbidden fruit meant only for a select few, and he would show the same commitment to the moment as he did to his game. She had imagined his kiss before, but all those fantasies were pre-season.

Chase’s kiss was playoffs, final minute before the buzzer intense.

She answered him with thirty-six dollars and two years of pent-up longing. Arms looped around his neck, she parted her lips to welcome him inside her mouth. He might have seized the opportunity of her legs between his, her body completely at his mercy. He didn’t. The exquisite and thorough exploration of lips remained their only contact, as if he, too, was taking the time to convince himself this was real, this was happening, this could happen.

As much as Willow wanted him to unpin her and make better use of his hands, as much as she wanted him to find other, more desperate areas for him to kiss, as much as she had played this fantasy in her girly moments of self-gratification, Willow wanted to keep her word more. Her spoken word to Tarek and Chase that she would be a steward of her role. Her unspoken word to Dylan that she would ensure Chase Holbrook had the composition of a man, not an ego, and that the bet money would be hers so that it could be Dylan’s. Her internal word that she was nothing more than a geographically convenient diversion for someone like Chase.

Around his very deft, very sensual tongue, she whispered his name.

When he didn’t respond with anything but a more thorough lip-examination using delicious scrapes of his perfect teeth, she added, “There isn’t enough space in the lust jar for this.”

Humor was her last defense. But with each successive plunge of his tongue, her defenses subsided. Dear God, she was in trouble.

“Forty-four points.”

His kiss subsided like a changing tide, barely perceptible but for the recovery of his breath against hers. He broke contact and searched her eyes. She knew he was in a vulnerable place, wanting to save face, making this about anything other than what it was—a gross error in judgment on both of their parts. Again, she reached for humor.

“Next game, you’ll score forty-six points if you let me romp your ass in the video game instead of on your couch.”

“The bet.”

“The bet. A celi-bet, remember?”

“Right.” He rubbed his lips together, backed away, and settled in the crook of the cushion behind her legs.

She untangled her legs from beneath his body and straightened her T-shirt where it had ridden up in a glee-run for bra-fastener highway.

“I don’t make nearly enough as Bolt to cover the last three minutes.”

She was trying here. But he didn’t smile. He had the glazed look of a motorist who had just veered wildly to avoid a collision. So the jokes were misfiring. She took a stab at honesty.

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