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“Would you let me put my finger in your ass?” I can’t believe I’m playing along with this, but he really does have the nicest, roundest, most beautifully jiggly butt and I desperately want a piece of it.
“Maybe.”
“Fine,” I huff. “Give me your foot.”
A heavy weight finds its way to my lap, and with my eyes closed I tentatively reach for it.
“If it grosses you out that bad you don’t have to touch it.” Noah starts to pull his leg back, but I hold it firmly.
“Just… Distract me.” I gently knead the squishy skin around his ankle, telling myself it’s an ass cheek.
“What made you get into skateboarding?”
“I already told you. It’s uncivilized.”
“You could say the same thing about hockey.”
“I suppose, although if a sport costs thousands of dollars to play, most people would say aggressive or even violent, not uncivilized.” Did he just sigh? Maybe he’s pretending I’m rubbing his ass too.
“So, if it cost money your parents would support it, and if it didn’t they’d hate it, so you went with the one they’d hate?”
“And here I thought hockey players were just dumb jocks.”
“Not a dye job, but also not a state of mind.” I open my eyes to see Noah pointing at his hair, and roll my own before getting back to my imaginary butt massage.
“Did you get to pick hockey or did your Canadian roots decide for you?” I ask.
“Both. It was pretty much expected that I learn the game, but when I started growing and realized I have solid reflexes for my size, it became something I wanted to get better at.”
“I bet your parents are psyched about that.”
“They were.”
“Were?” My hands still.
“They passed about eight years ago. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.” To my surprise I don’t laugh, even though this is a prime example of an inopportune moment. Maybe I’m finally outgrowing that particular personality defect.
“Thank you,” he says, and when nothing else follows I start rubbing again.
“What?” His question brings my gaze to his, and I see him point to his lip. “You’re chewing on it again. What?”
No way. I’m not going to admit I was thinking about my own shitty parents when he’s clearly sad about losing his.
“You really don’t want to know.” I knead his ankle, shoving my family out of my mind and focusing on my salacious daydream. This time I know he sighs in response, which makes me feel oddly content despite the fact I’m touching his foot.
“Of course, I want to know.”
“Fine,” I groan for maximum effect and tell him about my fantasy instead of the reality he caught me remembering. “I’m pretending I’m rubbing your ass.”
“That’s how you stomach rubbing my foot?” He chokes back a laugh.
“We all have our phobias. And the ass visual worked for me. Or it did.” I nudge his leg away because with him saying foot I can’t pretend anymore.
“Well, I didn’t have the same visual, but I think it had the same results.”
“What?” I twist my head to look at him, and see him pointing to his junk, which is standing at full attention. As much as it can be from underneath his track shorts.
