Connor annoyingly outplays me word after word. The wine’s making its presence felt, and my shoes are long gone. I have to up my game here.
A few rounds later, with the wine boldly speaking through me, I lay down L-I-C-K-A-T-H-O-N with feigned innocence.
“Interesting choice,” he drawls. “For just two friends playing a harmless game of Scrabble.”
I giggle because apparently that’s my default reaction now. “Just playing to win. Your move, hotshot.”
“Nice try, but that’s not gonna fly. Not a real word.”
I pout playfully, half jesting, half serious. “Come on, how about a few points for creativity?”
My leg stretches out, a spontaneous move that ends with my bare foot grazing the hot skin of his thigh. He reacts fast, fingers clamping my arch and pressing it to all that rock-hard muscle. A zip of electricity thrums through me at his assertive touch. Now he’s really fighting dirty.
“Don’t think I’m gonna go soft on you,” he warns with a bit of a growl.
Is he still talking Scrabble? The room suddenly feels like a sauna.
“Fine then,” my voice coming out huskier than planned. “Let’s go withLICK.”
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Yes, considering the wine’s taken over creative control.”
His fingers work over my helpless foot. “Trust me. I can do way better than just lick.”
Oh boy.
The innuendo settles hot in my belly, making me squirm on the cushion. Images of him between my legs in my bedroom flood my mind.
Judging by his smug look, he knows exactly where my mind just went.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, acting cool. “You’re such a competitive jerk,” I shoot back.
“You knew what you were getting into.” He smirks, oozing the kind of confidence that says he’s never been on the losing side of a Scrabble board—or much else, for that matter. “I don’t lose, angel.”
In a feeble attempt at rebellion, I try kicking free with my foot, but he catches it easily, thumb teasing my sensitive sole until I’m a giggling, writhing mess. “Jerk! That’s not fair, cut it out!” My attempts to squirm away only fuel his cocky laughter.
“Gotta move faster than that,” he teases with a wink.
I like this version of Connor. I’m having fun. Like, actual laugh-out-loud, forget-your-troubles kind of fun. With Connor Quinn, of all people.
So, are we friends now or . . . ?
Friends don’t engage in unsolicited footsie, a little voice in my head points out as his thumb strokes lazy circles.
He glances over my tiles and grins. “Lotion.”
Wait, what?
Oh right, my letters. I thought he meant what he wanted to do with my foot.
“You’ve got the letters for ‘lotion’ right there. Or . . . ‘Colicky.’” He’s suddenly the Scrabble mentor I never asked for. “I’m practically handing you the win.”
“Colicky isn’t a word!”
“Of course it is.”
A quick check on my phone, and what do you know, I’m wrong. “Well, look at that. You’re not just a pretty face after all.”
