Page 42 of Flagrant Foul
He didn’t seem to notice when I changed the channel from hockey toHousewivesan hour ago though.
I took that to mean I’m affecting him, that my plan is working, but really, he probably thinks I’m such an idiot he doesn’t know what to do with me.
I’m probably making him uncomfortable. He probably wishes I’d stop.
I keep thinking I see flames in his eyes, but maybe all it is pity.
“Huh?” he says a little louder than the situation calls for.
“Hmm?” I squeak back, brows shooting up as I try to decide how to extract myself from the situation.
“What did you say?”
Oh God. Don’t make me have to say it again. Please.
Sev’s gaze remains steely. Steady. Absolute. I glance around the room hopefully, willing something to appear to me that I can use as a distraction.
Nothing is forthcoming, so I’m forced to face my humiliation head-on. “I said…” A ragged, born-in-shame whimper leaves me. “I said I want kisses.”
Time slows enough that I’m able to formulate the bones of an apology in my mind, but not say it aloud.Sev moves the way he moves on the ice. Decisively. Assertively. So fast, I don’t have time to react.
Out of nowhere, he swoops in and seals my lips neatly with his.
A bomb goes off in my brain.
His kiss is firm and soft. Chaste and innocent, and easily the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
I blink twice, and by the time I open my eyes, he’s back to where he was before he kissed me. He’s still looking at me, though, waiting to see what I’ll say or do next.
I raise my hand to my mouth, carefully rolling my bottom lip between my fingers to replay what just happened, and when that’s not enough, I flick my tongue out and lick my lips in an attempt to taste Sev again.
His eyes haven’t left me, although the weight of his gaze changes the longer I bake under it. It started out as a question. A query in need of an answer. Now it’s hot oil spilling down my face and chest.
I’m not sure I have it in me to look at him, so I bow my head and look down. As I do it, the hot oil running down my body pools in my lap and makes me grow hard. I watch, half in disbelief, half in acute shame, as my dick thickens visibly. The movement in my underwear is subtle at first, a gentle swell that isn’t particularly noteworthy, but that quickly changes.
Soon, my bulge isn’t merely a bulge. It’s a rock-solid rod that forms a clear, unmissable ridge in my underwear. My hand finds its way down from my lips and comes to rest on Sev’s thigh. His jeans are worn in but still rough to the touch. My heart beats like a drum, and I can hardly breathe, hardly dare to do what I want to do.
Most of me has reverted back to the old me, the scared me, the me that buckles under rejection, real or perceived.
The tiny part that hasn’t reverted takes possession of the body. Of my arm and my hand. I watch, curious and amazed, as my pinky and thumb curl to my palm. Then I tap the three fingers that remain straight firmly on Sev’s thigh.
“What now?” he grinds out through gritted teeth.
“Three,” I whisper, hardly able to believe my audacity. “I need three. I like things in threes. You know that about me, Sev. I need three kisses, or I won’t be able to sleep.” For good measure, I tack on an infinitely polite, pathetic, “Please.”
I don’t expect him to do it. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I should have taken his kiss and run to my room with it. I should be there now. Under my covers, with my hand in my underwear and his kiss on my lips.
It’s enough, more than enough, to keep me happy for ages. Weeks. Months. Maybe years.
To my endless surprise, Sev’s eyes roll upward briefly, and he omits a low grumble before turning his attention back on me. “Does the first one count, or do I have to start over?”
Huh?
What?
Oh God, this is good!
“You have to start over, please. I need them to be a collection. A little group, or they won’t feel like three, they’ll feel like a separate, unrelated thi—”
