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And when he just leaves his hands there, around my waist, I’m compelled to whisper, “What’s happening? Why are you…” I lick my lip, my feet swaying, dangling off the desk. “Touching me like this.”
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he digs his thumbs into my belly button. “Why, you don’t like it?”
I do.
For some reason, I feel his words just behind my navel, where he’s touching me.
So much so that I drag my nails along his biceps and pant, “I-I don’t think you should.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…” I swallow. “Because you’re my coach and…”
And my sister’s ex-boyfriend. And the secret love of my life and I’m so greedy…
“But I thought we were friends,” he rasps. “You wanted to be my friend. Didn’t you just say that?”
I shake my head. “I did. But we’re not. Not anymore. It’s better if we’re not.”
“Better for whom?”
I look at him with regret. “For you. I-I’m… dangerous.”
He stares at me for a second. “I think I’ll take my chances.”
I let out a breath, looking at his gorgeous lips that just said that and if I were a better person, I would push him away and fight him more.
I’d tell him everything in my witchy heart so he never touches me again.
But God, it feels so good. That he’s touching me. That he’s holding me with his strong hands, so only a weak protest comes out of my mouth. “I don’t think friends touch like this.”
His nostrils flare as he swipes his thumb over my belly. “Well, you’ve never been friends with me.” Before I can respond to that, his eyes drop to my lips as well and he asks, “So do you kiss all your friends, Salem?”
At the abrupt change of subject, I sort of jump.
Well, as much as I can with his hands on my waist, keeping me pinned to the desk. Blinking, I shake my head. “No.”
“So just me then.”
“I…” I duck my head, staring at the silver locket of his chain. “Yes.”
“Like the ride, was that your first kiss too?”
I clench my eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment washes over me.
Not only that, like my swaying legs, my body sways too and somehow I end up on his hard chest. My forehead presses into the arch of his pectoral and I jerk out a nod. “Yes.”
“Eighteen and never been kissed.” He hums and I feel it against my cheek. “I figured.”
I move away from him and look up. “How?”
He begins to massage my waist then. “You were so eager to take it. So eager for your first kiss. You had your pouty, dark lips all puckered up, eyes closed, tight body stretched up and neck tilted. Like some impatient little schoolgirl.” He pauses for a beat to study me before saying, “I bet you’re one of those.”
“One of those what?” I ask and instead of answering, he proceeds to adjust me first.
His body has been curled over me like a blanket, his hands on my waist, kneading the flesh through my t-shirt, his shoulders blocking the view of the room around me.
But at my question, he slides me down the desk and shifts.
And I realize that he’s in between my thighs as well. He’s covering me from top to bottom.
Not only that, in the past however many minutes, my thighs have hiked up and made a home around his sleek waist and my feet are now dangling at the small of his back, instead of from the desk.
I should probably already know things like that but his drugging proximity has rendered me senseless.
When I’m all settled according to him, he answers, “One of those girls who have this really infamous syndrome.”
My chest is sort of heaving from his maneuvers and now that I know I’ve got Arrow between my thighs, I squeeze them rhythmically to feel his strength.
“What syndrome?” I whisper.
“Needy girl syndrome.”
“What?”
Amusement flickers in his eyes and around his mouth when he answers, “I bet you’re one of those girls who call all the time. Who send a thousand texts, celebrate all anniversaries. Who have overly sweet nicknames for their boyfriends. Who make birthday and Valentine’s Day cards. Show up unannounced to the guy’s apartment with homemade dinner and a chick flick. You are, aren’t you?”
I don’t know how he can say these things the way he’s saying them, all tender and velvet-like and still getting me to frown at him, still getting me to become all pliable and soft for him, all at the same time. “So what if I am?”
“And you make him watch that movie with you while you’re draped all over him,” he continues as his hands worry the flesh of my waist and caress it at the same time. “And he’s thinking about maybe sliding his hand under your t-shirt, copping a feel, but he can’t. Because you’re crying at every romantic scene. And you cry the hardest at the end when the hero gets to the airport, right on time, and says all the right words and gets down on his knees. You do, don’t you? Cry at a scene like that.”
