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I chuckle grimly. “Wish I could skip it too, but that’s not gonna be an option for me.”
“Sorry, not sorry,” she teases.
I don’t ask, I don’t think. I just drive home, taking Luna with me. I park in the garage and turn the car off. Looking at her, I say, “Thank you for tonight, but I’m not ready for it to be over. You want to come up?”
“Uhm, okay.”
Despite the delay in her answer, she sounds sure, and I’m buzzing from the successful dinner and the feeling of her thigh beneath my palm.
Upstairs in my apartment, I hold my arms out. “Welcome to my humble home.”
It’s different from Luna’s for sure. Where hers is colorful and full of personality, mine is inoffensive and lackluster. Everything is quality and designer-selected, but it doesn’t have the spark Luna’s place has. She looks around politely. “Nice,” she surmises. From anyone else, it’d be a bland compliment. From Luna, it’s totally an insult.
“You hate it,” I guess.
“No!” she gasps. “It’s . . .” She looks around again. “Nice. Like a magazine.”
A laugh pops out unbidden. “It was in the Bridgeport Monthly a couple of years ago,” I confess. “It’s around here somewhere. The designer gave me a copy, thinking I’d be excited about it.”
“Were you?”
“Didn’t give a shit in the slightest,” I swear, holding up a hand as though testifying. “Have a seat. I’ll get us a drink. What would you like?”
“Water, please,” she answers as she sits on the couch. “With lemon or lime, if you have any. It makes it seem fancier than plain, and that’s how I trick myself into getting fruits and veggies into my diet.” A flush rises to her cheeks quickly, and she rushes to assure me, “Not that I eat like crap. It might not look like it, but I eat pretty healthy.”
“Luna, I don’t care what you do or don’t eat. You’re beautiful, and in case you didn’t notice, I was loving your thigh beneath my palm tonight.” I let my gaze drop slowly, methodically over her curves—from her breasts, to her hips, to the thighs in question. When I lift my eyes to hers once more, she’s staring at me in surprise, her lips parted in a soft circle.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush even further, but when she shifts on the sofa, it’s to show off her legs rather than hide them away. Her dress inches up a bit, and though she places her hand there, she doesn’t pull it back down.
Is Luna Starr flirting with me? If so, I am fucked.
I remind myself that she’s my best friend’s little sister, but when she pushes her glasses up her nose and looks at me through her lashes, I forget too easily. I already know I’m going to hell, but right now, the things I’m thinking of doing to those sweet thighs are enough to send me there on the fast track.
“Water!” I say too loudly, virtually running for the kitchen. This girl has me on edge, and the slightest encouragement from her, when it’s only the two of us and my bed is a mere twenty-five steps away—yes, I’ve counted—is danger waiting to happen.
In the kitchen, I take a couple of deep breaths, not to slow my racing heart but to give my cock a moment to soften. It’s not working, but I make her a glass of water, smiling as I drop in a ‘fancy’ lemon wedge, and a whiskey for myself. I’ve never hoped for whiskey dick before, but right now, a little help would go a long way.
When I return to the living room, Luna has taken her heels off, leaving them askew under the coffee table, and has her legs folded beneath her. I hand her the water glass and sit down beside her on the couch. “Feet hurt?”
“I don’t know who invented heels, but they must’ve been a sadist. Those things are killer, and I barely walked in them.” She throws a dirty look at the offending pain-inducers.
“Or a masochist?” I question.
I lean forward and set my drink on the table and then tap Luna’s knee. “Let me help.”
There are many, many more things I’d like to do to. Filthy, dangerous things. But rubbing her feet after she dressed up tonight seems relatively safe.
“You sure?” Even as she double-checks my willingness, she’s rearranging herself so that her legs are outstretched and her feet are in my lap. Thankfully, over my thighs and not touching my cock, which is reminding me that I should’ve taken that whiskey as a shot.
I take her left foot in my hands, running my thumb along her arch, and she groans. “Ohmagawd, I forget how much I’m on my feet.” I do it again to keep her talking. “I love the museum tours, but I’m on my feet for eight hours straight. And when I work at home, I’m usually barefoot, but I have a habit of curling up in weird positions. I don’t realize that I’ve pulled this or crunched that until it hurts.”
