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He’s messing with me. I just know it. Trying to throw me off my game so he can win.
I shouldn’t let him affect me that way, I need to focus on my next move.
From what I can tell, Griffin is purposely choosing the dots close to me so he can crowd me out. Make it more difficult for me to continue playing.
If I could change directions, that would be my best bet.
“Right hand,” I call out.
Griffin is quick with his response. “Green.”
Ugh. That’s the worst option for me. Instead of going under my body to reach it, I twist my body in half to where my upper body is now facing upward, while my hips and lower body are toward the floor.
“Right foot,” Griffin says from behind me.
I scan the mat; my best option is to swing my right leg over and have my entire body facing the ceiling.
“Green,” I puff out, then shift my leg around.
When I settle into my new position, I find that while my body is less fatigued in this position, there are other issues with it. Like the fact that Griffin is smiling down at me now.
With the transition, my hair has landed in my face. I shake my head trying to move it, but the sweat on my forehead is making it stick. It would be fine if it wasn’t tickling my nose. I puff out a breath in hopes of blowing it off to relieve the itch, but that doesn’t work either. I scrunch my nose, trying to fight the urge to lift my hand and scratch it.
“How’s it going?” Griffin’s lips twitch. His casual comment is the equivalent of ‘I could do this all day.’
“I’m great.” I force a smile. “How are you?”
My left hand is struggling. If I could move it one dot closer to the rest of my body I’d be fine.
“Left hand,” I whisper.
Griffin eyes the mat, then me.
“Red,” he whispers back.
It’s the opposite direction I wanted to go. My hand starts to inch toward the red dot, but it’s too far. My muscles are aching, crying out for relief. I know I’m not going to make it. I’ve accepted my fate. I’m prepared to land in a heap on the mat when Griffin’s arm catches me.
“I win.” It’s an echo of what I said when I won our Yahtzee game, except it’s spoken so softly. His eye contact so intense that he looks pained.
His arm bands around my lower back, then he slowly pulls me upward, his solid mass of a thigh sliding between my legs. I know his intention was to help me, to not let me fall, but this new position is far more dangerous than me collapsing onto the floor. With the seam of my leggings and the way his thick thigh is positioned, there’s now a delicious pressure against my clit. It’s a quick message to my nervous system—party’s down here—then there’s a flood of wetness and the tiniest heartbeat pulsing between my legs. My core feels heavy, like a weight has been dropped between my thighs, anchoring me to Griffin.
The pressure is so good.So good.
My body urges me to rock my pelvis, to move against him.
My brain responds.Don’t you dare.
I’m internally fighting a battle of my hormones when Griffin’s hand presses against my lower back, pushing me farther up his thigh. Caught off guard, I’m not able to hold in the breathy moan that his movement and added pressure on my clit causes.
With the sound of my whimper hanging between us in the otherwise quiet room, my eyes widen and my neck flushes, embarrassment claiming me. As he stares down at me, Griffin’s eyes are dark and moody, but the tender smile on his face remains. He’s like that. Equal parts dangerous and sweet. It’s so sexy that it’s infuriating. Also, how obnoxious is it that he is currently holding up his body weight and mine? Like what human being is designed to do that? And do it so casually. His arm muscles contracting with their use, but no evidence on his face that he’s strained in the slightest.
And why does he really have no shirt on right now? His perfectly sculpted shoulders and chest are looming over me to show me what I definitely can’t have. What I’m not supposed to want because we’re only pretending. And honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how much I’ve been lusting after my own husband lately.
“Excuse me,” I push on Griffin’s shoulders in order to put space between us so I can dismount his leg, “If you’ll let go…I can...get off.”
But he doesn’t move an inch.
“You want to get off?” His voice is low, and if I’m not mistaken, laced with hunger. And when he slides me against his leg again, a shudder of pleasure racks my body. He does it again, this time not only sliding me against his leg, but applying a downward pressure that intensifies the sensation between my legs.
