My eyes flutter shut. For a second, I let myself get lost in the rhythm of his touch—firm, deliberate, and way too intimate for something that’s supposed to be platonic. Each press of his fingers sends warmth spiraling through my body, pooling in places I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
Focus. This is a foot rub. A totally normal, innocent—oh my God, What is he doing with his thumb?
A soft, involuntary sigh slips out before I can stop it.
“Enjoying yourself?” His voice cuts through the haze, and my eyes pop open to find him grinning at me like the insufferable jerk he is.
“Shut up,” I snap, sitting up straighter and pulling the blanket over my lap like it’ll somehow hide my embarrassment—or the ridiculous heat crawling up my neck.
He laughs, leaning back like he’s got all the time in the world, his hands still casually massaging my foot.
Damn him. Damn his stupid hands.
Strong. Calloused.
Big.
Oh no. My brain is wandering to places it should not go. Places like—stop it! This was supposed to be a relaxing movie night. Not whatever this is turning into.
And yet, as his fingers work their magic again, I can’t seem to move.
In fact, I might never leave.
But then his thumb doessomething—a slow, circular pressure under the ball of my foot—and I swear to God, my soul leaves my body for a moment. My head falls back against the couch, and this time, I can’t hold back the groan.
“Oh, wow,” Harris says, mischievously. “I didn’t realize I wasthatgood.”
I slap at his arm blindly, heat flooding my face. “Stop teasing me.”
He catches my wrist easily, his grip warm and steady. “Teasing? I call it flirting.”
I start to protest again, but the words die in my throat when his fingers glide up to my calf, kneading the muscle there with the same infuriating expertise.
Oh no. Nope.
This is risky territory.
“Harris,” I warn, though it comes out far weaker than I intended.
“Hmm?” He looks up at me, all wide-eyed innocence, like he’s not fully aware of what he’s doing.
“You’re ...” My brain is scrambling for words, but all coherent thought has left the building. “You’re making it worse.”
“Worse?” His grin turns downright devilish. “You mean better?”
“No! I mean—” I gasp as his hands move higher, his thumbs digging into the back of my knee.
This is fine. Totally fine. Except it’s absolutelynotfine because now all I can think about is his hands on my thighs.
“If you want me to stop, you can say so,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather and not driving me to the brink of insanity. “I can stop at any time.”
“I—” The word catches in my throat because, let’s be honest, I don’t want him to stop.
Instead of answering, I pull the blanket up higher, covering my face completely. Maybe if I hide, this whole situation will reset itself. Maybe he’ll forget I exist and leave me to die of mortification in peace.
But of course he doesn’t. Instead, I hear his soft chuckle, followed by his hands returning to my foot, kneading away like this is another normal evening.
“Still good?” he teases, his voice warm and low.
