Page 52 of Making Over Maris

His ears went pink. He glanced away. “Yes.”

For some reason, he jumped. It could have been her foot worming its way onto his lap. He grabbed it. Held it still. So close to her goal.

“Those photos were…very erotic.”

“Were they?” He swallowed. “I didn’t notice.”

“Liar.” She wiggled her toes. Found something surging in his lap. “I saw the way you ogled some of those pictures.”

“I didn’t ogle.” His voice squeaked. His flush deepened. “I just—”

“I know what you just. Jack, there’s nothing wrong with having…divergent interests.”

He stared at her. An array of emotions flickered over his features. She had a sudden epiphany that he was as nervous about revealing his fantasies to her as she was about exposing her true desires to him.

She should probably help him along. It was doubtful he would ever get the point. “For example, I saw how you fixated on that one photo.”

His eyes went wide. He gulped. His cheeks turned beet red. “You did?”

She stroked his cock with her foot. He made a strangled sound. “Yeah. That one.”

“W-which one?”

She smiled. “You know which one.” By the set of his jaw, she could tell he didn’t want to say. Didn’t want to admit it. That was okay. Because she was taking it slow. They could ease into it… She cleared her throat. “I did enjoy our date, Jack. But it was a lot of walking, wasn’t it?”

He blinked. “What? Um. Yeah. I suppose.”

“My feet hurt.” There. That was a pretty blatant hint.

He stilled. Captured her gaze. They stared at each other in a frozen tableau as he worked through her cues. She gave him a nudge. With her toes.

Still, he didn’t get it.

How Jack. So much for being subtle. “I could really use a foot rub.”

“Oh!” Relief—and something very different from relief—flooded his face. “You want a foot rub?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Instead of dessert?”

She tipped her head to the side. “What’s for dessert?”

“Cheesecake. It’s low-fat.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You had me at cheesecake. But you lost me at low-fat. Let’s go with the foot rub.”

“Okay.” He bounded from his chair as if he had somewhere to go then froze. “Um. Where should we do it?”

“How about the sofa?” She nodded to the plush couch facing the fireplace. It was an overstuffed piece done in buttery leather, festooned with pillows.

“Okay.” He showed remarkable restraint, not sprinting across the room. Instead he took her hand and walked her inside. He picked up a remote and pushed a couple buttons. The fireplace blazed to life and soft tones of Al Green swelled.

Ah. Such a seductive scene. She couldn’t have planned it better.

Sara chuckled and plopped down in the corner of the couch, reclining across its length. The robe parted, exposing her legs. She pointed to the far end with her toe. “Sit.” She deliberately infused a strand of steel in her tone and was gratified when his nostrils flared—and he sat. Collapsed like a puppet on a string. A ribbon of lust, a skein of satisfaction, wound through her. She loved when he did as she asked.

She put her foot in his lap and peered at him expectantly. “Well?”