Me:
I’m not ready to end our game.
Neither are you.
She chortles and bites her lip. I hold back a groan. The things I want to do to that pretty little mouth of hers.
Looking over me, taking in my size and stature, she furrows her brows, thinking. I tip my head to the side, curious, waiting for her to divulge her thoughts.
“When he pinned me against his body…” she starts, my back stiffens with the mental image. “He felt… spongy. Soft. Like he physically hadn’t done a day's manual labor in his life. His physique echoed that.”
I type another text, holding it to the glass.
Me:
What do you need?
She reads and looks up at my face, trying to look for my eyes behind my tinted tactical goggles. “Can you keep your hands to yourself?”
No. I slowly shake my head before begrudgingly rolling my head into a compliant nod of yes as she eyes me down with a raised eyebrow and folded arms.
Her hand moves for the door lock, and she flicks the latch. The second it slides open, her scent hits me. Lavender. Sweet, delicate?—
Mine.
I shove my hands in my pockets. If I don’t, I won’t be able to stop myself.
She smiles, accepting my cooperation. “I need to touch you.”
She steps closer, placing a hand on my chest.
A test. A confirmation. Every fiber of my being aches to reach out and grab her. But this is her moment.
Her hand drifts down my arm, over my bicep. She squeezes gently and runs her fingers down to my clothed forearm.
Pip walks a circle around me, running her hand over my back. Her nails scratch through my hoodie, tracing from my waist up to my shoulder blade.
Circling until she returns in front of me, her hand glides to my stomach. I watch her intently, the comfort of holding the power in this moment etched into her face. She bites her lip again, and I can’t help but suck mine in under my hood.
“May I?” she asks, fisting my shirt. I nod, and she brings up her free hand, and they both disappear under my shirt. Her fingers trace the ripples of my abs down to the ‘v’ at my belt. I’m vibrating under her touch. I inhale slowly. Barely holding on. “You’re not him,” she vouches. I shake my head in agreement.
No, my little pipsqueak, I most certainly am not.
She goes to remove her hands from under my shirt, but I lose the fight with myself, reaching out to stop her. I pin her hands in place with one of mine. She startles, looking up at my face.
“What is it?” her voice trembles, the confidence she had a moment before fading.
Now, it’s my turn.
ELEVEN
PIP
He moves deliberately. No rush. No hesitation.
His free hand emerges from his pocket, holding something black—silk, smooth, folded.
A blindfold.
