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“Yeah, that’s the point. The shorter it is, the easier it is for guys to imagine what’s under it.”
A muscle in Will’s jaw flexes.
Usually, I have no issue flirting with guys. There’s a script. He compliments me, and I ask a few questions and gush over his answers. He offers to get me a drink or asks me to dance, and then we end up making out in the dark corner of a booth. Sometimes, they’ll ask me out, and sometimes, I’ll accept. But always, there’s a stoplight in my head that moves from green to yellow and then eventually hits red. A point where I want to stop.
I haven’t hit that with Will yet, and I’m starting to wonder if I will. I came here. I sought him out, which is something I’d never done before.
Even with Ansel, part of the appeal was him chasing me. I misread his intentions, but I liked how he was the one initiating everything.
Will’s different. He’s a worthy competitor. He’s seen past the shiny, poised exterior and all the insecurities buried beneath. He won’t be fooled by false confidence. I feel vulnerable in front of him, but I also want him to see. I relish having his eyes on me.
“Is it working?” I ask. “Are you imagining what’s under it?”
I’m imagining what’s under his shorts. He feels huge.
I shift, trying to better assess the size. To figure out if he’s really as big as I think.
Will’s hands land on my hips, holding me still. His palms are huge, too, spanning half of my back.
The naked hunger in his gaze sends bolts of heat racing down my spine.
“This isn’t a game, Sophia.”
“You’re the player,” I remind him.
His jaw tightens again at the taunt, but the carnal ferocity in his eyes flames brighter.
He’s an athlete. He’s competitive. This isn’t a game, but I want to play with him. I want to push him—until he pushes back. I need this to happen between us before I can revert back to what life looked like before we met. I need to know he wants me. Not because I’m so vain that I think he must be attracted to me, but because I need some outlet for the burning desire I feel toward him.
“Lots of guys were looking earlier. I danced with some of them. One asked me to go home with him. Should I have gone home with him, Will?”
I’m worried his jaw might crack; it’s clenched so tight.
“I pretended it was you all night. You I was dancing with. You I was talking to. And then they’d say something I knew you wouldn’t, and I couldn’t keep pretending.”
I lift a hand, finally doing something I’ve fantasized about since the first time I saw him. His eyes half close when I run my fingers through his short, dark hair, a deep rumble vibrating through his chest. I rock my hips into his again, and his eyes snap open.
“Like what?” His voice is a low rasp, like tires crunching gravel.
“One of them asked, ‘Willst du tanzen?’ You’ve never asked me to dance. One told me, ‘Du siehst umwerfend aus.’ You’ve never told me I look beautiful. Another asked, ‘Darf ich dich küssen?’ You’ve never asked if you could kiss me.”
I can see the struggle on his face, and part of me feels bad for the torment. The rest of me doesn’t feel bad at all. My grip in his thick hair tightens, and I imagine tugging at the strands while he thrusts deep inside of me. I want it to happen.
So, so badly.
I’m getting tossed before I realize it, landing on my back on top of the soft cushions. My heart races from a heady cocktail of arousal and adrenaline as his hands slide up my thighs, slowly pushing my dress higher.
“Fuck, you’re trouble.” He sounds mad about it. But also amused.
My breathing has turned embarrassingly fast. I wish I were still on his lap, rubbing against his cock. But he’s touching me, voluntarily, which has me praying this isn’t about to end.
“I play soccer; I don’t dance.”
His hands finally reach the curve of my hips, this time beneath my dress. His fingers hook the scraps of lace circling my waist, yanking my thong down with one quick jerk.
“You’re not beautiful; you’re the most goddamn gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”
I’m unraveling. From what he’s saying; from how he sounds saying it; from the possessive way he spreads my thighs so he can look at my pussy. From the anticipation of what might happen. He’s seized control of the situation, and I trust him enough to let that happen.
