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“Yet . . . I did.” He tightens his grip on me. “What are you going to do to stop me? Just be quiet. The faster we get home, the faster we’ll have you cleaned up, and the faster I can get back to my day.”
“Again . . . Don’t need your help.” I realize I’m leaning into him and shift away, sucking in a breath when he just pulls me closer. “And I didn’t ask to be knocked over by that guy.”
“You’re still going to get my help.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Rich coming from you,” he says, and I bite my lip to keep from saying an obnoxious retort.
He’s helping me.
And he is right.
At the speed I was walking, it would take all day for me to get it cleaned. I would never make the train.
This might be completely embarrassing, but it certainly does help.
In his arms, I feel strangely at peace.
I don’t want to read into these feelings.
Nor do I want to think about the way he smells.
Or the butterflies that are flying in my stomach.
Nope.
Keep your thoughts on something that doesn’t make your body warm.
Socks.
Yep.
That’s what I’ll think of. Smelly socks . . .
He takes a step, and as he does, he pulls me even closer to him. His hands that are wrapped around me dig into my exposed flesh.
Shit.
Socks.
Socks.
Socks.
It’s not helping.
Nothing is helping.
His fingers are too close to my upper thigh . . . and not close enough to where I’ve wanted him for weeks. Touching my skin under the hem of my dress, wishing they would move higher.
My eyes flutter closed.
My senses reel with sensations.
Conflicting emotions swirl inside me.
As much as I want to deny it, I can’t. The feeling of him on my skin has me hoping for more. With each step he takes, his fingers move ever-so-slightly, a gentle massage that sends currents of desire pooling in my core.
