Ryker pushes me backward; my back hitting the mattress of my bed as he moves to straddle me, his lips never leaving my own. His weight is heavy on my body, stirring a fire inside of me as his hands tug at my sweater and t-shirt, forcing them upward so he can run his rough palms over my skin.
I erupt in goosebumps from the connection, my own hands taking on a mind of their own as I slide them up, over his t-shirt to the leather jacket he still wears, shoving the material from his shoulders.
Ryker shakes off the jacket, his tongue forcing its way between my lips, devouring me.
A groan crawls up my throat, my hands skating under his shirt, feeling the hard, defined muscles of a man that always treated his body as a temple. Oh God, he feels even better than I remember, the football physique
