Reward me.
And I can’t explain it but…I wannaberewarded.
That sounds much more enjoyable than being punished.
“Both,” bravely propels its way past my lips, “and I would like you to put your armbackaround me, Jukes.”
Thayne instantly repositions it to where it was, although this time it actually dangles across my shoulder rather than the furniture. “Both it is.” The sudden lengthening of my spine swiftly becomes temporary thanks to his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. “You’re extra fuckin’ sexy when you tell me what you want like that, Gillybean…”
Air not only seems to abandon my lungs, but the entire building.
A lot like my ability to speak.
And think.
And blink because apparently being paralyzed by salaciousness is a thing that can actually happen to a person when it’s not scripted to.
Post a cool down session – graciously granted by our coffee labeled waitress providing ice cold glasses of water upon her return – Thayne does the ordering and polite dismissing that leaves us alone yet again.
Between the dim lighting and spaced-out seating arrangement, there’s certainly an air of romance.
One that easily keeps us pressed tightly together.
Exchanging looks and bashful lip bites.
Leaning in towards one another rather than raising our voices, not wasting the opportunity for our mouths to gravitate closer during our discussions on lyrics and musicians and instruments.
Despite being in a room with at least forty other people – forty other people talking and laughing and singing loudly – it somehow feels as though it’s just us.
Like no matter where we are or where we’ll be, it’ll always be just us.
Ohforcryingoutloud…I’m turning into a fucking Mariah Carey ballad.
Dessert is smoothly slid onto our table at the same time Thayne informs, “I’m really glad it’s Queens of the Diva Age tonight.” He casually removes his arm in order to better face me. “They cover a wider variety than like Corretta Clyn or Felton Don or Noiseplanting – who I’ll admitdoesjam a top cheddar kazoo.”
Disbelief has me instantly leaning forward. “I’m sorry, did you say…kazoo?”
“I did.”
“Like a…a…” my clutch gets close to my lips to assist in my loud, odd noise, pantomiming, “kazoo?!”
“No, like a regular kazoo,” he teasingly taunts prompting me to playfully hit him with my bag, which he effortlessly captures. “You gotta be faster than that to score on me, Gillybean.” Devilish hunger swiftly swaps places with his impishness. “Unless I’m out of my net…”
The sexual implication fully flushes my face and neck, an action I try to ignore by pointing out the mistake of our waitress, “She um…only…delivered…one spoon.”
“Why would we need two?”
Against my own volition, I peer up into his glowing gaze.
“Sharingwith youis wonderful,” Thayne warmly states while dipping the spoon in the ice cream mixture, “butsharing youis unacceptable.” He slides one hand under the other to capture any possible drops during his delivery to my parted lips. “Same line?”
“Same line,” is practically whispered prior to my mouth closing around the offering.
Faint whimpers escape us both for what I’m guessing to be the exact same reason.
Most free agent players – regardless of their sport – happily bag and bang every jersey chaser from Texas to New Zealand with no gameplan on settling down until a broken condom threatens to have them signing the one type of contract, they didn’t see themselves ever signing.
M was an exception.
