He exhales. “It’s your pappoús. Grab lunch with him when we get back. He’ll understand.”
His fingers trail up my sides, lighter now. Barely there. Then his knuckles brush the sides of my breasts.
My entire stomach clenches.
It’s nothing, really. A graze. An accident.
Yet my body reacts like it’s never been touched before.
His palms flatten again at the top of my shoulder blades, and he presses his weight into the muscle.
The edge of his hand digs into my scapula and a sound slips out of me.
Oh, God.
A moan.
Fuck.
Matt lets out a low chuckle.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He laughs softly. “I didn’t do anything.”
And then he starts again. The same motions. The same pressure…
Only this time his thumbs dip lower.
His fingers spread wider.
And I swear to God my stomach falls from under me.
I try to think.
What were we talking about? What did he just say?
He shifts, one hand pulling back for half a second.
Is he… hard?
Thishasto be turning him on. It’s Matt.
He starts again—hands sliding, knuckles brushing, thumbs dipping.
His fingers wrap further around my hips.
Lower.
They graze the hem of my underwear, and a wave of heat rushes to the insides of my thighs.
The room goes still. Quiet.
Repeat.
He straightens his fingers when he reaches my breasts, letting the tips of them ghost over the sides. He hovers there, making delicate strokes, tiny circles, then traces a finger along the underside of my breast.
My breath catches.
