“Oh, yeah you were. You were just about to call Jorgie a giraffe.”
“I was not!” I retaliate as my eyes dart to the doorway, hoping to hell that Jorgie isn’t within earshot. Jorgie never forgave Victoria for calling her a giraffe in middle school. Even though I'm her best friend, I’m not willing to test her forgiving nature.
“I was going to say she is as tall as a gir… gir… a girl!”
“You are so full of shit,” Hugo replies, smiling a shit-eating grin.
“I am not,” I respond with a stomp of my feet.
“Oh, yeah you are,” he says, lunging for me.
I squeal and dash across the room before his tortuous hands can get anywhere near my ribs. A whoosh of air parts from my lips when he wraps his broad arm around my waist and tackles me to the ground. I squirm and giggle like an immature fifth grader when he straddles my hips and his fingers unleash a torrid of tickling on my upper stomach. I squirm and buck my hips, fighting against his cruel tickling onslaught. Within minutes, my face is red, I’m sweating profusely, and I can hardly breathe through the stream of tears seeping from my eyes.
“Okay, okay, I give up!” I squeal, still squirming. “Mercy! Mercy!” I scream at the top of my lungs, knowing it is the only word that will stop his tortuous hands.
Upon hearing my roaring pleas, he un-straddles my hips and flops onto his back beside me. His chest thrusts up and down, matching the rhythm of mine as we endeavor to refill our lungs with air.
I don’t know why he is so exhausted. I’m the one who was subjected to torture.
Once I can breathe again, I roll onto my hip, crank my elbow, and rest my saturated mop of hair on my open palm. Hugo’s eyes shift from staring at the ceiling to peer at me. His gaze looks complicated and uneasy. When he notices I’ve caught his odd expression, a roughish smirk etches on his sinful mouth. Oh no. I know that look. It’s a look that means he’s about to stir up trouble.
“If you tell Jorgie Inearlycalled her a giraffe, I'll kill you,” I warn.
Panic scorches my veins when he waggles his brows before scampering off the floor. I freeze for all of two seconds before I dive at him. He hits the ground with an almighty thump when I scuttle across the carpet and wrap my arms around his ankles. His deep thunderous laugh booms through my chest when I hook my legs around his torso and attempt to use my pitiful weight to hold him down.
He crawls across the carpet, not the slightest bit impeded by my monkey hold. When he stands from the ground, taking me with him, I leap from his back and dart for the door. I slam the door shut, plaster my back against it and lift my eyes to his.
“I’ll do anything,” I plea breathlessly. “Anything at all.”
We are standing so close, our thrusting chests connect every time we take a breath. A small smile curves on my mouth when he loosens his grip of the door handle and runs his hand along his jaw. That’s a sign he is considering my request. It’s something Hugo always does when he’s contemplating.
“Anything?” he queries, his tone dripping with innuendo.
My tongue delves out to replenish my dry lips before I nod my head. My heartbeat kicks up when he presses his palms against the door on either side of my head and tilts his body closer to me, leaving even less space between us and trapping me between his imposing body and the thick wooden door.
“Alright,” he breathes out heavily.
The warmth of his alcohol-scented breath adds even more heat to my already flustered cheeks.
His gaze lifts from my parched mouth to my eyes as he mutters, “You have to cook me breakfast.”
I eagerly nod my head. I’ve done that exact thing every Sunday morning for the past two years so that will be a walk in the park.
The eager nod of my head lessens when he says, “I want the works. Bacon, eggs, pancakes. If it’s associated with breakfast, I want it. And I want it tomorrow morning.”
My nose scrunches. “Jeez, what happened to your last slave?” I ask, my tone full of wit.
“Nothing… yet,” he replies with a cheeky wink.
My O-formed mouth curves into a grin when he tugs on a strand of my curly hair that has sprung in front of my eye. As my wild mess of hair starts to dry, the super tight curls are beginning to sprout. I was never a fan of my ringlet curls growing up, but they have grown on me the past two years. I don’t know if he realizes he is doing it, but when we watch re-runs of “Friends,” Hugo twists my hair around his index finger the entire time. It is the meekest touch, but it sparks a surge of excitement in me every time he does it.
The room becomes roasting when Hugo’s eyes burn into mine and he says, “I wantmybreakfast served inmybed.”
I swallow to relieve my parched throat. “Okay,” I stammer.
A bead of sweat rolls down my back when his gaze returns to my lips. “If its edible, and it’s in my room, I’m going to taste it.”
“Okay,” I respond again since my brain has lost the ability to form intelligent words.
