Page 91 of Scoring the Player
He doesn’t reply, but his fingers return to his teeth.
“When you think of me at night, are you on top or bottom?”
“Bottom,” he murmurs as I softly stretch his foot outward.
I hide how much I love that answer.
But, fuck yeah.
“Favorite thing about a man?”
“About or on?” he asks.
“Either. Both.”
“Scent after they work out. Piercings.”
“Favorite feature of mine?”
“Mm,” he moans, lower back lifting as I squeeze his heel with both hands, and my thumbs press down.
As if he knows it’s mine, he doesn’t touch his erection.
“Your face, voice, body…the way you read and move on the court.”
There’s no masking my megawatt smile. I thought I’d get one grunted answer.
“You haven’t answered any of the last few questions,” he reminds me.
“My bad. Your entire package is”—I raise my fingers to my lips and kiss them with aMwah!—“but your eyes…”
“Yeah. The green,” he says, with an air—no, a gust—of boredom, maybe even disdain, and pulls his foot back.
“The green is the least captivating part, no offense.” I pick his foot back up. “For me, it’s their shape and depth and the way you wield them. They seem old.”
He squints. “My eyes seem old?”
“Yeah. Like those eerie, beautiful houses covered in vines and wildflowers that, like, despite wars, famines, name your atrocity, still manage to stand.”
“My eyes are like an eerie house?” The rawness in his voice overpowers the tone of skepticism.
“Yeah. You know the kind of house I’m talking about. The paint is chipping, the windows are storm-beaten, and when you stare too long, you run cold, sensing there’s something staring back. Not just staring but daring you to approach. And most won’t. But for me, I have to.”
“So my eyes are possessed?”
I ignore him and continue. “You press your face against the streaked window, and there’s overturned furniture, the beginning of a staircase, and tells where the floor creaks from too much life, and you want to break in, but something there in the shadows stops you.”
Looking deep into those haunting eyes, I quietly and without so many words, tell him my plan for pursuing him. “The way in isn’t force…it’s patience.”
Arnaz
My stomach clenches.
Please don’t let the burn spreading up my chest reach my eyes.
“Hey,” he speaks softly.
“Next question,” I rush out.
