Page 53 of The Off-Limits Play

In fairness to him, Carson’s risking the wrath of Coach Jones in order to do this with me. I should seriously have a word with my father about that. But maybe I’m not brave enough to deal with his wrath either. I know deep down my dad is a softy and he’d never do anything to hurt me. He’s so protective it’s annoying.

But if he found out I was dating—distracting—one of his players, he’d be pissed. And I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that.

With a disappointed sigh, I scan the road one more time before turning toward the theater, then jerk to a stop when I hear the rumble of a Harley Davidson coming down the street.

To be honest, all motorcycles sound the same to me, but I’ve got my hopes pinned on a Harley and…

Yes!

It’s a Harley.

It’s Carson’s Harley!

And my sinking stomach is rising so fast and quick it’s getting lodged in my throat. Butterflies swarm me as I watch him park on the other side of the street.

He pulls off his helmet, staring across the road at me, and I’m taken out by how sexy he is. I love his angular face and sharp lines. I love those eyes, which are drinking me in and giving nothing away.

I should find it disconcerting, but something inside me knows that he wants me. I might not be able to read his expressions, but I’ve got this sense about him, and it fuels me like nothing ever has before.

He checks the road before crossing, and I watch his every step, the way his lithe body moves. He’s so tall and strong, but not in a bulky way. I felt his shape a little when I was kissing him the other night, and my hands are already itching to feel some more. I want to study his shape, memorize the curve of each muscle, trace my finger into each defined crevasse.

“Hey, trouble.” He smirks down at me, and these giddy bubbles pop and burst in my chest.

I manage to contain them to a grin. “Lame.”

His laughter is short and hard, but I triumph in his smile.

“How’s it going, douche nugget?”

“Lame.” He shrugs and then tips his head toward the movie theater behind him. “So, are we doing this or what?”

“Let’s go.” Another spray of giddy bubbles bursts through my chest as I pivot and walk beside him into the theater.

He buys the tickets, and I insist on paying for the popcorn and gummy bears. I grab a bottle of water as well, and we sneak into the theater a few minutes late. The trailers are all done, and the opening credits are already rolling.

Thankfully, the theater is really quiet, so we’re not disturbing too many people.

The back rows are kinda full, so I lead Carson down to the front of the theater. There’s no one in the first eight rows, so we take a seat in the middle of the second row, far enough away from everyone else that I can fool myself into thinking we have the entire place to ourselves.

I’m battling giggles. I don’t even know why. It’s just fun to sneak around with this guy, I guess. Mysterious music fills the theater as a blonde girl wakes up in a lab, surrounded by scientists in white suits. I’m barely aware of what’s taking place as my body attunes to the smell of worn leather and manly aftershave.

Glancing to my right, I smile as the screen lights up Carson’s defined jawline. He’s clenching his teeth, then swallowing. His eyes dart to mine, then back to the screen. I want to reach for him, link our fingers together again.

No, I want to kiss him. I want to dive back onto his lap and feel his tongue brush against mine. I want to press our bodies together and feel every inch of him.

Smashed glass and a tense escape take over the screen, but all I can think about… all I can see… is Carson’s fingers inching over the armrest. He hovers near my hand, brushing the pads of his fingers across my skin before drawing a line down my middle finger and hitting my jeans-clad leg. Tingles fire through me when he splays his hand just above my knee.

I shift in my seat, loving the feel of him, wishing he’d do more than just palm my leg. But this is good too. I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever he wants to give me.

Curling my fingers around his arm, I give it a squeeze, rubbing my thumb into his jacket and trying my best to watch the movie. But I can’t concentrate.

He’s touching me.

And every inch of my body knows it.

My insides are starting to writhe with yearning, and I rotate my hips in the chair. Trying to keep my butt grounded in this seat is becoming nearly impossible. It’s like I’m doing an unconscious mating dance. And he must pick up on it… because his hand starts to move.

My heart does a weird hiccup, this thrill skipping through me as he slowly trails his fingers north. It’s hard to breathe as I glance down and watch his hand closing in. Closer and closer he inches his way up, adjusting his trail until those fingers of his are caressing my inner thigh, then brushing up the fly of my jeans.

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