Page 176 of Catfish

“You’re kidding me…” I can feel her eyes bore into me like I’m fucking nuts—and I am. I’m here, aren’t I? “You don’t know who Olivia Pope is?”

I push my lips out and shake my head. "Nope." Silence follows my answer, and I dare a glimpse up to her.

“You wound me, Governor,” she says incredulously. “You have to watch it.”

“Have I told you lately how ridiculous you are?” I counter back, opening my ESPN app to see today’s scores. It’s better than losing myself in her bewitching eyes.

“Not today, but thanks, G. My day wasn’t complete until I was told that.”

"The least I can do, Miss Shelton." A pillow smacks me right in the forehead, and I gape at her.

“You’re watching it with me,” she orders with a creased forehead. “I bought you food.”

“I’ll pay for the food,” I retort.

“That’s not the point. The point is to watch an amazing show.”

“Alright, Shelton,” I surmise, placing my cell onto her coffee table. “But if I don’t like it, we’re shutting it off.”

She bows her head in agreement. “Deal.”

Reagan fires up Netflix as I attempt to keep my attention on the screen and not her legs that are kicked up on the table.

Almost to the end, I believe, of the first episode, our food arrives, and we argue over who is paying. I ended up shoving the cash in the girl's small hand and slamming the door in her face.

Mean—yep.

Regret it—nope.

We hustle around her kitchen, grabbing forks—because we both realized we don't use chopsticks—and waters. Kneeling in front of the TV with the table full of food, we help ourselves to everything she ordered. By the time I know it, we're on episode three or four, amazed by the irony of the show.

A powerful, independent woman who has an affair with the president of the United States. Something forbidden yet so lusted for that I can’t help but relate to almost the same situation.

Reagan has us covered in a large blanket, keeping a small space between us filled with respect and lacking of any warmth that comes off of her. She appears content, full, and relaxed as her eyes stay glued on the TV. The more time we spend in silence together, the more undemanding the world feels. As though I'm living in a little cocoon where it's safe, and I'm unbothered by the outside world.

From anyone who wants to stand in the way of what I truly want.

—

I remember the weight on my torso. The soft body under my fingertips as the muffle of voices fills the background. The warmth of the soft blanket over my body, and when I cracked my eyes open, I recall seeing Reagan sleeping on me, softly snoring, which made me fall back asleep again.

But it’s the featherlight brushes against the stubble of my cheek that start to draw me out of my content state. The delicate press of pressure that starts to activate my brain to turn on. And when I feel a tongue lick its way up the side of my face, my eyes fly open.

Reagan sits to my side, lavishly kissing the side of my face, making my cock stir under the blanket we’re currently both still under.

She’s fucking dreaming.

“Reagan,” I utter, tampering back every ounce of restraint to allow her to keep going. “You need to get to bed. You’re sleep—” Walking? Talking? Kissing me right now.

“I’m not sleeping,” she murmurs, drawing a trail of wetness from her tongue to my ear.

My dick loves the sound of her husky voice when she just wakes up. The confession that she is fully aware of what she’s doing to me right the hell now.

“You need to get to bed,” I retort then immediately groan when her lips clasp around my earlobe.

Exactly what I did to her in her Ohio hotel room when I taunted and teased her.

But this is what I get. For slapping her back with a piece of torment that she hand-delivered to me at the bar. I knew she wouldn't back down, that it wasn't over even though it'd be in both of our best interests to do so.

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