Page 112 of How to Score Off Field

She’s so fucking pretty.

Her breath hitches when I move my hands, sliding them up her waist and over her rib cage.

Our tongues mingle…

Hot and wet and frantic.

Tess's arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me closer still—as if that were even humanly possible—desire coursing through my veins. My lower half.

My cock.

Obviously.

I deepen the kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair as I lose myself in the taste and feel of her. There's an urgency to our make-out session, a desperation that's been building between us since the moment we met.

We're breathless, our foreheads resting against each other's.

I could literally tear her clothes off right now. I want her so bad.

"I want you so bad," I admit, my voice a whisper in the quiet room. "I want to hold you and kiss you and touch you.”

Fuck if I don’t.

“Say yes.”

And then, with a small nod, her lips find mine once more, the kiss turning deeper, more fervent. Our bodies press against each other, a tangible reminder of the connection that's been building between us.

My hands slide down her back, my fingers tracing the contours of her body, and a soft moan escapes her lips. The sound sends a jolt of desire straight to my core, and I deepen the kiss, my lips trailing down her jawline, her neck.

Tess's fingers find their way to the hem of my shirt, her touch igniting a fire within me. With a sense of urgency, I pull away just long enough to rid myself of the fabric that separates us, yanking it over my head and tossing it to the kitchen floor.

Then I remove hers.

Her hands go behind her, and within seconds, her bra joins our shirts on the ground.

Skin on skin, we slowly, almost hesitantly, explore each other's bodies.

I'm overwhelmed by a mix of desire and tenderness.

On one hand, I want to fuck her hard.

On the other—she’s pregnant.

I don’t want to hurt her.

You can’t hurt her. And you can’t get her pregnant. She’s already pregnant, you idiot.

Still.

The urge to be gentle has me tentatively inching forward, my fingers tracing down her collarbone to her breasts. I trace the curve, drawing a line to her nipples, round and round the areola.

So pretty…

Her breath hitches as she watches me touch her, her back arching.

It's more than just physical intimacy—it's a way for us to bridge this gap that’s been wedged between us.

A way for us to reconnect.