Page 136 of Altius
“Alijah.” My breathy hiss came out less admonishing than I intended, sounding way too sultry.
A horrific misfire.
“Shh,” he teased. “We’re in public.” His strokes morphed into tight little swirls. Then he shivered. “Ooh, now Joaquin wants me to toy with your waistband. Just run a fingertip along the edge of the fabric, occasionally touching your stomach but never dipping inside. Until you gasp—twice—the signal for me to run my thumbnail along your zipper.”
The tip of his ring finger circled the recline button.
“You don’t wear jeans all that often, so I’d have to work for it. Scrubs only need the lightest pressure. But jeans make it so you really have to dig in.”
“Is that so?” I asked, flipping to the second page of the schematic, which outlined a customizable frequency option for up to eight partners.
“Does Joaquin ever purr for you?” The question all but slipped out.
“Sometimes. When I’m really wound up—from anxiety or…otherstuff.” Color momentarily darkened his cheeks. “And when I’m sad. Did you know I applied for a transfer position earlier this year? For the theatre department. I nailed all three rounds of interviews. Thought I had it in the bag. But I didn’t. They gave it to an alpha from outside the university system, and I cried about it every day for like two weeks. Joaquin finally had enough. Bundled me up in a blanket and force-fed me a pint of ice cream, purring non-stop until I’d gotten it all out of my system.” The tip of Alijah’s pinky curled around the edge of my weighted blanket. “And on Monday morning, just as I was determined to make them regret their choice, by being fucking amazing—”
“Which you are.”
“You say that now.” Alijah’s gaze—that soft, starlit night sky—caressed my features. “But notthatMonday. You walked right past me in the lobby. Didn’t give me so much as a second glance. I know why. You had things to do. A fellowship orientation tocomplete. But rationalizing my disappointment never made me want you any less.”
“Look,” I said, reaching over, intending to touch his arm. “That—”
Alijah grabbed my fingers, forcing a stalemate in midair. “I want to slip my hand beneath that blanket—down, down between your legs—and make you writhe. Watch your face as you try not to care. Not to enjoy it. Being stroked. Teased. Desired.” His mouth brushed the hinge of my jaw. “Until you get so wet it ruins the seat. And don’t say you can’t. I know you can. I’ve made you soak your bed before, haven’t I?”
My breath came in slow, shallow sips. I wanted to rebut, but the flight attendant was two rows ahead, handing out drinks.
Frozen, arrested by the gentle pressure of Alijah’s touch scorching my skin, all I could do was bargain. “What do you want—right now—to let me off this ride?”
“Choose.” His voice was firm. “We have a conversation to finish.”
The words were pointed and intentional. Almost rehearsed.
“Thursday or Friday?” he asked.
“Friday.”
“Lunch or dinner.”
“Dinner. After practice.”
I refused to engage in personal business until the team finished preparing for their semi-final game on Saturday.
“I’ll pick the spot,” he said. “And don’t worry, I won’t approach you at the hotel. We can meet up at the restaurant.”
Alijah placed my hand on my lap with near reverence, at complete odds with his suggestive smile.
“Pleasure doing business with you,doc.”
The traitorous little shit dared to wink at me as he stood up, apologizing to the flight attendant as he sidestepped the beverage cart, heading back to his seat with a skip in his step.
I knew it. I knew this was a set-up.
No one with a weakness for polo shirts should have that much game.
Thirty-Three
Morgan
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Coaches spurred on the defensive linemen Thursday afternoon, as they pushed tackle sleds behind the end zone.
