Sunday, we crashed girls’ night. We tried to fall back into our normal dynamic in front of everyone, but we fooled no one. Jordan flicked me in the ear when she caught my gaze lingering on Sutton for too long.
Monday she observed practice again, and afterward all I wanted to do was drag her into the penalty box, wrap her legs around my head and show her why it’s also called the sin bin. Instead, she met with Coach, and I ran errands with her—successfully checking off all of her grocery list this time.
I’m supposed to be working through a survey for the psych department about my experience thus far. Besides my name at the top, a doodle of her name in a heart, the S drawn like Superman, and one question answered, the rest is blank.
I can’t stop looking at her.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop thinking about us over the weekend.
I can’t stop hearing the little noises she made when she came on my tongue, and I swear I can still taste her.
I need another taste. I’ll savor it this time. The first time I was greedy, a little kid let loose in the candy store. Took for granted the opportunity. One more go, and I swear not a second will be wasted. On my knees, I’ll worship every part of her. Take my time as if I have eternity with her.
But only if she wants it, and with how her gaze finds mine periodically, heated and wild, I think she does.
As if instructed, flicking to me quickly, our eyes lock. I smirk, and she drops her gaze before it flicks back to me. The tip of Sutton’s tongue peeks out of her mouth, running along her bottom lip.
My leg bounces under the tight grip I have on it. Arousal pools in my stomach as she pulls her hair into one hand, twisting it and moving it onto one shoulder, exposing the other. Her oversized knit rainbow sweater is loose, hanging off her. A dainty, lace strap from a camisole sits delicately over her shoulder. And make up covering the mark I left at the base of her neck.
Sutton might be sunshine incarnate and delicate, but her body isn’t. She’s strong. Sculpted, athletic curves yet soft in all the right places. Powerful and lithe—that’s how she was out on the ice playing hockey.
Her brain is just as intoxicating as her body. She’s smart. Analytical. A sponge. She played that way, too. She’s playing me now—Sutton knows exactly what she’s doing. Moving her hair, chewing on the pen, wearing a short skirt.
I could give in, but I’m enjoying the way she shifts in her seat. Not as discreetly as she thinks. Two can play this game.
This continues for another ten minutes. I’m no further into the questions than I was forty minutes ago.
She sighs frustratedly, pulling the pen from her mouth, scratching out line after line on her notebook. Her laptop is off to the side, the screen dark. Sutton’s always loved taking notes by hand. A method to the madness, a secret color-coding system that I’ve never been able to decipher.
I reach into my backpack. “I got you something,” I say, unzipping an interior pocket.
Her head tips to me with amusement, maybe a bit of leeriness.
“It’s your birthday soon, not mine.” I like that she remembers.
“And?”
“I didn’t get you anything.” Sutton frowns, shoulders slumping.
“I can think of something you could give me.” She crumples a sticky note and throws it at me. “I was talking about a hug.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sutton says as a threat. Barely.
I laugh. Tauntingly. Knowingly.
“Stop chewing on your pen and giving me those eyes then.”
“What eyes?”
“Come on, baby.” I lean in across the table. “The ‘I want you’ eyes.”
“I am not giving you those eyes. I’m simply annoyed that you aren’t—” She stops, teeth grinding, then stutters over nonsensical words.
“Aren’t what?” I run a finger up her forearm, pushing up her sweater, completely forgetting the dual highlighter and pens I got her. She shudders, goosebumps pebble her skin. “Not touching you? Not kissing you?”
“No.” It’s flat, but not good enough to cover the flick of her hazels to my mouth.
“All you need to do is ask.”
