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In reply, Zach’s hand spreads over the line of my neck. Gently. Only he knows how to be tender with fingers as rough as his.
“No,” he rasps as he sifts his other hand along the strands of my hair. “There’s only one shade of blue unlucky enough to catch my eye.”
I can’t even stop the sigh that escapes my lips and I grow heavy. So heavy that my chest lowers itself of its own volition. Up until now, our upper bodies were kind of floating within touching distance. But my sigh makes me go flush with him.
My breasts smash against his chest.
Zach groans and it’s so rough and needy. It’s… erotic.
So erotic that I’m not even ashamed to shift and drag my breasts across his hard chest.
Turning his face to the side and staring at my hair, he asks, “So what shade is it? It’s different than what it was back in school.”
It is.
Three years ago, I had a gentler shade of blue. This one is louder, pops out more. Suits me more, too.
“Bad Boy Blue.”
His fingers stop sifting and he glances at me. “No shit.”
I shake my head. “No.”
I changed colors just after he went away. I went to the store and as soon as I saw the label, I bought it.
“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself. “Bad boy blue, huh? You’re obsessed with me.”
“In your dreams.”
“What was the other one called?”
I narrow my eyes at him because I don’t trust where this is going. “Voodoo Blue.”
He laughs.
And the sound of it is unpracticed but so free and light that I have to bite my lip. I will not laugh or smile.
“Don’t tell me you bought that after the whole emo shit went down.”
So, yeah. In ninth grade, there was this rumor that went on strong for about a month or so that I was a devil worshiper. I was the only – as they say, ‘emo’ or ‘goth’ chick – at St. Patrick’s.
Of course, his minions had fun with that.
I elbow his side hard and he jerks, grimacing. “Fine. I won’t tell you. And neither will I tell you that I had a voodoo doll with your name on it. I used to stick pins in it.”
His smile goes back to being lazy. “Oh yeah, you’re definitely obsessed with me.”
I elbow him again and jerk up from his body and he’s loose enough to not be able to stop me. But apparently, he still goes after me.
Even drunk, his reflexes are better than my clumsy retreat and he winds his arm around my waist and rolls us on the ground, until he’s hovering over me and his body is settled between my spread thighs.
“Told you I’d snatch you up and get you on your back,” he muses, slurs actually, the syllables thick and bleeding together, and I shudder under him.
“What? We had a deal.” I fist the grass. “I didn’t throw myself on you. You pulled me down.”
“Eh. Whatever.”
Now that the positions are changed, it’s like the spell has broken somehow. I remember where I am. I remember what I am. A maid, and he is for all intents and purposes, my boss.
