Winger (Seattle Sharks 3)

“So, this is what a Shark does in the offseason,” I said, nodding as I walked around the island. I flipped off the mixer, arching a brow at him.

A flash of panic burst in his eyes, and he spun around, throwing open the stove door. He reached for a pan—without a glove—and hissed. I flinched, reaching for him, but he grabbed an oven-mitt and jerked out the pan. It landed on the dirty range with a clunk. He huffed, switched off the stove, and shrugged.

“You make this shit look easy.”

I burst out laughing, studying the concoction on the pan a bit closer. I glanced back at him. “You were trying to make my filo-brownie?”

“You said it was your favorite.”

I scanned the disaster of a kitchen. “You did all this…for me?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought it might be a nice surprise after a long girls’ day.”

My heart did a damn flip which made baby-ball kick.

This beast of a man could throw me over his shoulder like I was nothing more than a party-favor—instead, he’d slipped on an apron and tried to make one of my most difficult desserts, just to surprise me?

No one had ever done anything like that for me.

Damn it; now my eyes were glittering again.

“I’m definitely surprised,” I said, grinning.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, bringing his burned finger closer to his face to inspect it.

“Here, let me see,” I said, stepping into his space and breathing him in.

Now he smelled like him and chocolate and good God I was in trouble. He gave me his hand easily, and I turned it over, running my finger along the inside of his palm simply because I could. “I’ve had more burns and cuts and scars than I can count,” I said, though my voice was a tad breathless.

“Cooking is dangerous.” His voice was low, gravely.

I nodded, taking the slightly red pad of his finger and gently touching it to see if it was going to blister. He hissed, but I flashed him an oh-please look. It wasn’t going to blister. It was barely even red anymore.

“That stings,” he said.

“Poor baby Shark,” I said, tsking.

“Hey—”

I dipped my mouth over the pad of the offended finger, cutting off his words. Swirling my tongue over the hurt, I glanced up at him. He’d frozen, but his eyes were wide and alert and…wanting. I sucked it before popping it out of my mouth.

“Better?” I asked, taking a tiny step back.

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he nodded.

“Good,” I said. “That’s my go-to cure. Well, for myself anyway.”

Ugh, why did I do that?

The taste of his skin was still on my tongue, and I was desperate for more.

“Now,” I said, grabbing a rag and wetting it at the sink. I needed to busy my hands before I did something stupid. “Let’s clean this place up. Then I’ll show you how to make a filo-brownie.”

For a few moments, he stood there, his fierce gaze on me, his carved muscles barely moving enough for him to breathe. A battle raged in his eyes, and I couldn’t tell if he wanted to kick me out or bend me over. The latter thought sent a hot shiver down my spine. I scrubbed at the countertops a little harder.

Finally, he moved. Not to bend me over, but to help me clean. The room was hot, and though I could blame the stove, it was hotter in the places where we brushed against each other on our way to complete another task. Like a sizzling electricity that begged to be played with.

Touched.

Or maybe it was just me, starved for him.

After a good twenty-minutes of clean up, we had the place looking perfect again. I quickly set out all the prep bowls and ingredients we’d need and lined them up on the counter near the stove.

“Pay attention,” I said, happy to have found my voice again. One that didn’t sound breathless and desperate for his touch.

“Oh, I am,” he said, and damn him his voice was still gravely with all the good-pure-man-grit.

I explained the details while I mixed the batter, showed him how to keep the filo-dough moist as we went. And though it was something I could do with my eyes closed, I kept stumbling. Forgetting how to say something or struggling to recall the measurements.

I kept tasting his skin in my mouth.

Kept smelling the mixture of him and the chocolate.

Kept accidentally touching his muscled forearm as I reached for something.

“And, now,” I said, shoving the tray of brownies into the stove. “We wait for those to get firm enough, and then we’ll roll them in the dough to crisp up.”

“Amazing,” he said as I shut the stove and turned to lean against the counter.

I shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“I know. You’re amazing.”

I shook my head, heat flushing to my cheeks like I was a damn teenager getting her first compliment. God, why did he have to make me feel so…

Happy?

Excited?

Hungry.

“How long does it take?” He asked, motioning toward the stove as he moved closer. He stood in front of me, only an inch between my belly and him.

“About forty-minutes.” My voice cracked, and I spun around, busying myself with cleaning up the absolutely spotless counter. I couldn’t look into those eyes without wanting him.

The need worse than it ever had been and I was terrified he could see it all over my face. I didn’t want it to scare him, my desire, my desperation. I wanted to live in this fantasy for as long as I could.

“Jeannine,” he said, the nearness of his voice indicating he hadn’t budged an inch.

“Uh huh?” I answered, unhooking the bowl on the mixer, and moved past him to put it in the sink. I flicked on the faucet, allowing the dirty bowl to fill with water.

“Nine,” he said, and the primal demand in his tone had me whirling around.

“What?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

He stalked toward me, placing one hand on the counter next to me, the other pushing back some of my hair. “I’m trying,” he said.

“I know,” I responded quickly. “You’ve been incredible—”

“I’m trying,” he cut me off. “To wait for you. To respect what you need.”

Wait for me to what?

Oh God, he wants me to tell him he’s earned his place so I’ll leave.

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach.

I glanced down, hiding my eyes that were filling with tears.

Fuck my life; I had never been so quick to cry…never. Fucking hormones.

“I understand.”

He tipped my chin up, confusion furrowing his brow. “I don’t think you do,” he said, dropping his hand to rest on the other side of me. His strong abdomen brushed against my belly and the touch was enough to make me tremble inside. “I don’t want to push you. But, woman, I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I do you. I’m a strong man, but if you don’t let me at least kiss you, I might have a fucking heart attack.”

“What?” I gasped. “How could you want...” I glanced down.

I couldn’t even see my feet.

He covered my lips with his finger. “Don’t you dare say one bad thing about this body.” He eyed me in question as he moved his hand to hover over my belly. I nodded, and he smoothed his fingers over it. I sighed at his touch. “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. Before, and now, and you will be after. The fact that you’re carrying my child only makes you more stunning.”

“Warren,” I whispered, unable to voice a proper thank you. An explanation for how much his words touched me. I didn’t realize how desperate I was to hear them until they came out of his mouth.

“If you don’t want me, that’s a different thing altogether,” he said, running his hand up my arm and to the back of my neck. “But if you do? If there is any part of you that wants this…” he gripped my hand and moved it downward, laying it over what was rock hard in his pants.

“Oh, God,” the words rushed from me upon contact. “Just a kiss?” I whispered.

I could handle just a kiss.

Just a kiss would mean I was still in control, still being smart.

“I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.” He inched his mouth closer to mine, his strong, warm body molding around me like the sweetest sun on a cold day.

Fucking hell he’s turned me into a love-struck girl.

He smoothed his nose over the line of my jaw and pressed soft kisses to my neck, behind my ear, my cheeks.

So slow.

So gentle.

This beast who growled at the tiniest hint of an argument. Who broke men on the ice for a living…was being tender with me.

The contrast was so damn maddening it made me dizzy.

And he watched me.

His dark eyes never left my face, gauging my reaction as he tested these new waters.

The Shark handled me like I was precious.

Each gentle, almost feather-light caress drew a heavy sigh from my lips. My entire body buzzed, ached, and hummed for him.

His lips finally grazed mine, just a breath of a touch, and I whimpered.

Then he claimed my mouth like the Shark I remembered from seven months ago.

He sucked my tongue into his mouth, rubbing it with his own. Flicked it over the edges of my teeth, the sensitive spot on the roof of my mouth. He remembered how I liked to be kissed—strong and hard and demanding. The give and take between us was as hot as it was back then, and now, God now I was starved for him on an entirely different level.

He held me to him, the touch on my hips so gentle compared to the way he dominated my mouth. It was the perfect contrast, and the fact that he wanted me with this kind of intensity set all my nerves on fire.

“Warren,” I said, sighing into his mouth. “Please.”

He stopped kissing me in an instant, holding my face in his hands. His chest heaved against mine, his breathing as ragged as my own.

I furrowed my brow.

“Don’t stop,” I nearly snapped. “Touch me?” I meant to demand it, but it came out a question.