Page 72 of Vicious Games

The only thing I don’t like? The asshole insists on plopping me on his lap every single time we make out.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t self-conscious about it. I mean, I’m not one of those petite girls who hang all over him at school, laughing at his jokes and batting their eyelashes like he’s God’s gift to women. Not only do I refuse to feed his ego, but I’m also what most people call a big girl.

Personally, I like to think of it as being a whole lot of woman. And while I’m comfortable in my own skin, there’s something to be said about being this close to Lucky. Having his hands on my hips, his breath hot against my bare skin. It all makes me feel… exposed.

If he has concerns that I’m packing a little more junk in the trunk, he sure as hell doesn’t show it.

In fact, if the way his hands tighten around my waist, thighs, and ass is any indication, he likes having something soft to grab onto. And damn it, I like it too.

And if this so-called experiment is going to remain our little secret, then why the hell not? Why shouldn’t I enjoy it?

He’s right, after all. Once I take my vows, this will be forbidden. No kissing. No touching. No Lucky.

That never bothered me before. But now? With his lips moving against mine, his tongue teasing just enough to make me want more, I hate the idea of giving all this up.

Lucky knows how to kiss. The bastard has had more than enough practice, no doubt about that. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s kissed half the girls in school—and maybe half of Chicago, too. Because it shows. Big time.

Not that I care where his lips have been before they’ve kissed mine. If anything, it just makes him a better tutor. And right now, I’ve never been more eager to learn and ace a subject in my life.

For these last two weeks, he’s made good on his promise. A couple of hours of studying first, making sure I don’t fail calculus. Then, he takes me to the kitchen, where the ingredients I requested the night before are perfectly laid out, waiting for me to create some magic.

Sigh.

I don’t know what I look forward to the most—cooking or kissing.

Back at the orphanage, food is just fuel. Bland. Basic. Enough to keep us going but never meant to be enjoyed.

But here? Here, I can create. I can mix spices, experiment with flavors, and for a little while, I can forget all my troubles and just…be.

Lucky never rushes me while I’m cooking. Though sometimes I can tell he gets antsy. The way he discreetly keeps checking his watch gives him away. But he’s never vocal about it, insisting I have all the time in the world to prepare whatever dish hits my fancy. And after I’ve cooked up a storm to my heart’s delight, he just watches me eat.

Sometimes, he takes a bite or two, but mostly, he just sits there, grinning like he’s savoring the sight of me almost as much as the food.

Freak.

I’ve never heard of a kink where a guy gets off watching a woman eat, but if there is one, Lucky definitely has it.

He never lets me clean up either. Yet somehow, by the time we’re back at his brother’s place the next day, the kitchen’s spotless, and the pantry and fridge are fully restocked.

I don’t ask how or when he does it. Maybe it’s just Lucky’s way of being nice. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to waste a single second when there’s kissing to be done.

Either way, when we finish eating, we move to the couch, where, once again, he refuses to let me sit anywhere but on his lap.

It’s more than just kissing now. His hands roam more freely around my body. A slow glide down my back, a possessive grip at my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me shiver. But more often than not, one of his hands always finds its way to my hair.

I get the appeal. I love running my fingers through his hair, too. It’s so obnoxiously soft that it feels like he bathes in overpriced shampoo and hair masks every night.

“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth when I shift the slightest bit in his lap.

I smile against his lips, doing it again, just to hear him curse and tighten his grip.

I’m starting to learn what he likes, too. And more importantly—what Ilike.

I don’t like it when he shoves his tongue down my throat with no prompting whatsoever.

Tried it. Didn’t love it.

What I do love is the build-up. The way our kissing starts slow and sweet, like the flickering of a matchstick, and then bam! Suddenly it’s a fucking forest fire.

---