This is everything I wanted their first meeting to be, minus the guy who can’t keep his hands to himself across the table.
Except for this one, tiny other factor.
The fact that I can’t peel my eyes off of the girl in front of me, or tear my mind away from all the inappropriate scenarios it’s painting for me. They’re scenes that involve me, her, that fucking dress. My fingers up inside the hem of it. Her in that dress, riding me. That dress thrown across the room.
This has to be the most awkward situation I’ve ever put myself in, but I can’t crawl my way out of it. Fuck me, but I don’t think I even want to.
My tongue darts out, wetting my lower lip as I focus on Gemma’s face as she tells a story—fuck knows which one, but it must involve me, as she nods my way and smiles a few times as she goes. Doubt if I’ve heard two words she’s said, and I’m not even sorry.
I must be doing a convincing job of being a good listener though, as no one stops to ask me questions or chastise me for not jumping in. Kayla gives me the occasional hand squeeze, like some part of the story was endearing to her, and I give her a grateful smile back every time.
The conversation doesn’t even dull when the food arrives, which is fucking delicious, by the way. I think. Not sure I even tasted it.
To say I’m in a mindfuck might be the understatement of the century. It’s like the only thoughts I’m capable of right now areoh fuck, she’s hot;hands off, asshole;andmine.I don’t know what to make of a single one of ’em, if I’m being honest.
Logical thinking and analysis haven’t always been my strongest suits—that’s why Gem and I make such a great pair in business, I schmooze, she handles the logistics—but right now, Igotnothin’beyond this guy needs to fuck off, and her attention should be onme.
So I decide to put it there.
Once the table has been cleared and Spencer is regaling the girls with a tale of how, on one low-budget horror film early on in his career, he turned a couple of maxi pads into a horrifying mask for the killer that became a top-selling Halloween costume for years after.
I snake my right arm around Kayla’s shoulders, toying with the bare skin there, my other hand drifting across her thigh. She shifts in her seat, the only giveaway that what my hands are doing is affecting her. She’s such a good date, listening intently, nodding encouragingly when Gemma’s talking, and taking turns telling her own adorable stories.
Gemma is still staring intently at Spencer, and that shit is about to end.
My left foot, the one closest to the wall boxing our private booth in, reaches out across the smooth concrete floor until it bumps into hers softly. Her eyes dart to mine briefly, a little apologetic smile on her lips, and she pulls it back a few inches to get out of my way.
No, Gem. That’s not what we’re doing here.
My knee straightens, extending my lower leg out farther, until my foot makes contact with hers again. This time, she doesn’t pull back.
Atta girl.
The voice in my head even sounds smug.
Her eyes don’t come back to me, though, and I decide to work harder to earn her attention. My foot shifts up, until I feel the bone of her ankle through my Vans. Her leg twitches in response, but her eyes never leave Spencer’s face, and my determination increases threefold with that little refusal.
Game on.
My foot begins to rub up and down her bare calf, stroking her leg slowly, all of my awareness on her reaction—or lack thereof—despite my eyes being trained on Kayla’s face, appearing intent on whatever story she’s telling.
Gemma doesn’t move her leg closer to mine, but she doesn’t pull it back, either. This game of chicken we’re playing is making me feel more alive than I have since the last time Gem, Kayla and I were all in the same place at the same time. My blood pumps at a fast pace, and I feel iteverywhere. Breathing through my nose to keep my cool, I can practicallyhearmy focus.
My foot drifts higher, breaching her knee and not stopping there.
Gemma’s chest rises with a deep inhale, and I candefinitelysee her pebbled nipples now. My eyes may have darted over to check on her. One of her hands came away from Spencer’s to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear nervously.
Finally, a response.
But it’s not enough.
She’s still watching him, not me.
I flex my foot, then point it, making small motions against the flesh of her thigh, and God do I wish I was feeling it with my hands right now. Or my tongue.
Another quick peek in her direction and I see her throat bob, both of her arms come back to her own lap—finally—like she doesn’t know what to do with her body.
Give in to me, Gem.
