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“I saw a deck of cards earlier.”
“Great, we can do that next.” I contort myself like a pretzel, which has him studying me skeptically.
“How can you sit like that?”
“Dancer, remember? I’m flexible.” I actually hear him swallow.
“Still looks painful,” he mumbles.
“A little discomfort is worth the end result.” I make a swipe of color on my big toe, then shift as if I need a better angle. Only the position I shift to forces my legs to open a little wider.
“Give it to me,” he barks as he tosses the book on the table. “I can’t watch you all hunched over like that.”
Trying to hide my triumphant smirk, I peek at him from the corner of my eye. “Do you even know how to do this?”
“It can’t be that hard.” He swipes the bottle from my hand and gestures for me to put my foot in his lap.Don’t mind if I do.
“Careful, the brush holds more than you think,” I warn, just as a blob of color drips onto my toe.
“Shit.” He grabs a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wipes the polish away.
“Use the edge of the bottle to wipe off the excess, then make long, even strokes so it blends.”
“I got it,” he insists as the brush makes contact with my nail. The cool polish coupled with the heat of his warm hands has my belly fluttering, and my pussy tingling. It’s a battle to keep my hips still, but I do, savoring the way Deacon’s strong fingers cradle my foot, gently dragging the brush over my toes.
His brow drawn together in concentration, Deacon methodically adds polish, wipes the excess, and paints each nail with precision. On the surface it all seems very meticulous, but we both seem to pause our breathing when the brush swipes over my nail, as if that simple act would interrupt the delicate connection that flares between us each time he makes contact.
“How’s that?” he asks when he finishes the last toe on my right foot.
I lean forward, inspecting his work. “Not bad. Blow.”
He chokes on a breath. “What?”
“Blow. The air will help the polish dry faster.”
I fight to keep a straight face as Deacon eyes me suspiciously, but in the end, he lifts my foot toward his mouth and sends a gentle stream of air over my toes.
“Now this one.” I thrust my other foot on his lap, and he repeats the process, right down to blowing on my toes when he’s done. Only, instead of guiding my foot to the floor, he sets it back in his lap, his large palm resting on my ankle.
“Why do women paint their nails?” he wonders aloud as his gaze admires his handiwork.
“I don’t know. I think maybe it’s like sexy underwear. It helps you feel pretty, even when you’re not.”
“Don’t tell me you think you aren’t pretty.” Those knowing blue eyes take an exaggerated trip to the back of his skull.
“After hours on my feet, serving food or teaching kids to dance…” I lift my shoulder. “No, I don’t feel pretty then.”
“You’re always pretty.”
“But…”
“Always.” His penetrating gaze finds mine, and my breath gets caught in my chest.
That was easier than expected. He’s going to kiss me now. Any second, he’s going to lean forward, and...
“Cards.” My feet slide to the floor as he shoots up from the couch, striding into the kitchen to get a deck from one of the drawers.
Pasting a smile on my face I look up at him as he returns. “What game did you have in mind?”
