He still doesn’t answer me though.
At least, not with words.
Still looking at me, his hand reaches up and pulls at the string of my ribbon.
I look down as the clumsy butterfly knot that I’d made before coming to his office unravels and my curls spill everywhere, mostly on his large fingers, my ribbon, falling and pooling down on the floor.
Goosebumps break out on my skin and looking back at him, I whisper again, “What are you doing?”
His eyes are on my hair. “Untying your ribbon.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it.”
My breath stutters. “B-but I thought you hated messy things.”
“I do.” He shifts his eyes away from my thick, scattered hair and focuses on me, my hastily breathing chest. “But strangely not on you. I like you messy.”
I so want to say something, do something. Let go of the edge of the desk and grab his naked shoulders, dig my nails into his honey-colored muscles.
But I refrain.
Although a second later, the choice is taken away from me because he puts his hands on me.
He grabs me by the waist, picks me up and sits me down on his desk, all in a matter of seconds, and I have to put my hands onhimbecause I feel so unmoored in this moment, so in the dark about his intentions that I grab onto him, his flexing biceps, to make sense of the world.
And when he just leaves his hands there, around my waist, I’m compelled to whisper, “What’s happening? Why are you…” I lick my lip, my feet swaying, dangling off the desk. “Touching me like this.”
Narrowing his eyes slightly, he digs his thumbs into my belly button. “Why, you don’t like it?”
I do.
For some reason, I feel his words just behind my navel, where he’s touching me.
So much so that I drag my nails along his biceps and pant, “I-I don’t think you should.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…” I swallow. “Because you’re my coach and…”
And my sister’s ex-boyfriend.And the secret love of my life and I’m so greedy…
“But I thought we were friends,” he rasps. “You wanted to be my friend. Didn’t you just say that?”
I shake my head. “I did. But we’re not. Not anymore. It’s better if we’re not.”
“Better for whom?”
I look at him with regret. “For you. I-I’m… dangerous.”
He stares at me for a second. “I think I’ll take my chances.”
I let out a breath, looking at his gorgeous lips that just said that and if I were a better person, I would push him away and fight him more.
I’d tell him everything in my witchy heart so he never touches me again.
But God, it feels so good. That he’s touching me. That he’s holding me with his strong hands, so only a weak protest comes out of my mouth. “I don’t think friends touch like this.”
