Page 92 of Love me, Maddie Mendoza

I’ve never been less sorry in my life.

Shaking her head like I was an insolent child, she allowed. “You can touch me whenever you like.”

“Even during class?” I smirked.

“Like I could say no to you, Z.” She rolled her eyes, but her words stayed with me.

She licked her lips. I traced her face with my eyes. After a moment too long, I turned back to the front and started the car. “Hungry?”

“What?”

“Are you hungry?” I left the spot. “I never told you what I was ordering.”

“Jesus, I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m thinking about dirty things.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Maddie Mendoza, who would have thought?”

“Shut up and drive.”

I put music on, but she connected her phone and changed to her playlist. I growled in protest, but that was what I learned to expect from an ordinary Wednesday. Fighting over music and talking about food.

We got to our favorite café and sat at our regular table. The servers knew us by name and appreciated our weekly ritual.

“There’s a party this Friday.”

I groaned. “There’s always a party.”

She chuckled. “It’s college, Z. And our last year. We should…”

I cut her off. “Are you making one of those little triangle things to wear?”

Maddie raised her eyebrow. I shrugged and waited patiently for the reply.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Then maybe I’ll go.”

Maddie’s eyes fell on my hand on top of the table. She took it in hers and turned it around. With a faint touch, just like I did with the pencil, she used her nails to scrape my wrist.

“Do you like my crochet?”

My mouth went dry, and she did it once more. How the hell could a scrape of a nail be so sexy?

“I like your tops.” I replied.

Maddie’s pinky nail drew an eight over my forearm. The rest of her fingers chased after. Calmly, tenderly, slowly. I bit back a groan, watching her hands dance over me.

“You like my crochet.” She settled.

I shook my head, licking my lips. “How the hell are you’re doing this?”

She was magical. Just one touch and she turned something so innocent into something sinful. It was the feather touch, the delicate hand, the purple fingernails. It took my breath away.Shetook my breath away.

“I wondered that myself when you decided to play with my pencil.”

Her nails scratched a little rougher, and I shook all over. Then, like an apology, she chased the roughness away with a soft touch.

“Do it again,” I asked, readjusting myself in the seat.

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