“I clocked out at ten, Captain Underpants.” She smiled at his gusty exhale. It was as if she’d told him (and everyone else in Whoville) that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all.
He tracked the movement of her hands as she raised the hem of her polo a couple of inches and then lowered it again, faking him out a few times before ripping it off in one quick motion and tossing it onto the sofa.
It was a fluke of the laundry cycle that she happened to be wearing her best bra, black and lacy with a little bow between the cups. Or so Jean chose to believe, even though there’d been another clean one in the drawer, a dingy cotton number. But that reveal wouldn’t have left him looking like he’d been tased.
“Your turn.” She nodded at the pepper grinder.
He seemed to have forgotten the game, along with basic functions such as breathing and the use of his arms, because when he finally spun the “bottle,” it skidded across the table before thumping to the floor.
“Um,” he said, without bothering to verify that it was pointing at him, “I challenge myself to recite a poem.”
That was… unexpected.
Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, he closed his eyes before diving in. “Two paths diverged in a snowy wood and I, um, took the path less traveled by?”
It came out in a rush of overlapping syllables, his voice rising at the end as if he was asking instead of telling. “Those probably aren’t the right words, but I hate public speaking more than anything.”
“That was very brave.”And you are painfully adorable. Jean kept that thought to herself, suppressing the urge to pinch his cheeks. Or dig her hands into his rumpled hair and kiss him senseless. One of those.
But she couldn’t resist reaching past him to get to the pepper grinder, enjoying his sharp intake of breath as her side brushed his front, skin against skin. When the bottle spun to a stop facing her, Jean pretended to think it over, tapping her chin with one finger, even though she knew exactly what she wanted to do.
“I challenge myself,” she said, slowly turning to face him, “to kiss you.”
Rising to her knees, she started to edge toward him, stopping when he placed a hand on her bare shoulder. It rested there an instant before he jerked away as if stung.
“Jean.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, giving her a better view of his solemn expression. “You don’t have to do that. If you don’t want to.”
She leaned closer so she could whisper in his ear. “It was my idea.”
“Good point.”
Jean sat back. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t?”
“No, no. Be my guest.” He took off his glasses, waving a hand like he was gesturing her to precede him through a revolving door. “I’d hate to be a bad sport.”
They grinned at each other, small and fleeting in his case, but Jean still felt the trace of it as she pressed her lips against his.
It was a good mouth, smooth and warm and welcoming. She took her time exploring, keeping it lips only. For now. When she pulled away, his eyes stayed closed, giving her a chance to study the planes of his face at close range, the inky hair and pale hollows of his cheekbones and jaw. “Heartbreaker” was the word that came to mind—like an old-time movie star.
He blinked at her, slowly resurfacing. “I think that might have been more than one.”
Jean tapped her lower lip with the pad of her index finger. “Do I get a penalty? Maybe I should go again.”
“That would be cheating. It’s my turn now.”
As it turned out, he wasn’t only talking about spinning the bottle. He leaned forward with his eyes closed, pressing the slowest, sweetest sigh of a kiss to her lips, leaving Jean no choice but to up the ante by daring herself to climb onto his lap.
“Comfortable?” he asked, when she finished wiggling herself into place, using his shoulders as handholds.
“Very.” She tightened her legs around his waist, watching his breath stutter as she rocked her hips. “What’s your move, cowboy?”
His eyes tracked down her body to the lacy triangles of her bra. “I…”
“Go for it,” she told him when he trailed off. “It’s easier than poetry. And it’s practically see-through anyway.”
“That’s true.” He swallowed. “You’re good at logic too.”
“I like to think so.” Despite the fact that no one else in her life appreciated Jean’s problem-solving skills.
