In answer, he tugs at the pocket to reveal a hidden message:SHOWMEYOURKITTIES.
I feel my mouth twist. “I don’t know what the Japanese word forless cuteis.”
“Personally, I think it adds a little something.”
“You would.”
“Go on, then.” He hitches an expectant brow.
“What?” I press my hands over the girls. “Not even!”
“I think I deserve a little something for my compliance.”
“And I think you might’ve bumped your head.” I make to swing the door closed, when Oliver begins to make chicken noises.
“I am not flashing you in the Goodwill!” I hiss, swiping a look behind me to make sure no one is listening. And it’sthenI hear the celestial choir. What a perfect accompaniment to that shirt.
“Kitty will be very disappointed,” he purrs. Unironically.
“The kitty wants to see my titties?”
“Let’s go with that.”
“What’s it worth?” I ask, swinging the door to the cubicle back and forth a little.It wouldn’t do to show my hand.
“Oh, God.” He straightens, his expression suddenly firming. “What are you up to?”
“Why do I have to be up to anything?” I answer innocently.
“I ask myself the same question. Regularly. And the best I can come up with is this is your version of pulling my pigtails.” His voice goes husky as he reaches out, the backs of his fingers a gentle caress against my cheek. “In other words, this is your love language.”
In the name of a tap-dancing Jesus, he might be right. He’s turned me kinky! I’ve never wanted to tease or torment men before—I’ve never experienced the levels of gratification I do when I’m driving him up the wall.God, I love this man. So much.
My eyes turn soft, my insides suddenly warm and gooey. All I want to do is hug him ... but I also really want to see him in this outfit. So I give my head a quick shake, bursting my little bubble of love forcibly.
“Want to try a little experiment?” I murmur, hopefully temptingly.
“Flash me your kitties, and I’ll think about it.”
“That just sounds wrong.”
“You could flash your pussy instead?”
“Keep your voice down! Honestly,” I mutter, pulling the hanger from the other door. Turning, I wind the fabric around it for concealment, and as I step into the cubicle, I the drop bundle to the floor and my bag on top of it. “If teasing is my love language, what’s yours?”
“This,” he says, hooking his finger to flash the message in his pocket again. “I’m waiting. Show me your pretty, pretty kitties.”
“Demands are your love language?”
He makes a chiding click of teeth and tongue. “Words of affirmation.”
My eyes on his, I undo the top button of my shirt. “Take off your pants.”
Oliver frowns. “I don’t think—”
My fingers flick another button open as I arch a little from the door. “If I’m putting up the goods, you should at least reciprocate a little.”
His throat works with a deep swallow as I languidly trail my hand over the (promising) bulge in his pants. He also eyes me doubtfully.
