Page 46 of Don't Make Me Beg
He moves to help, and Mr. Kingsley goes to join them as Luka, Guy, and I take our seats. Guy’s sitting across from Lukawith his arms crossed over his chest, and I can practically feel the glare he’s sending me.
Luka must sense my nervousness, because he gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze under the table. But the message it sends to my hormones feels anything but casual. Suddenly, I find myself feeling more flustered than nervous. Luka’s large palm is still resting on my thigh like it’s cementing me in place. Is this his plan: to distract me with his confusing touches so I don’t have the mental energy to overthink anything else?
When his thumb traces soft circles over my leg, it takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep from reacting and not making a scene. An almost painful throb develops between my legs, and I have to squeeze my thighs to distract myself.
Mr. Kingsley appears with a bottle of wine and begins filling everyone’s glasses. “We picked this bottle up in Tuscany. We’ve been saving it for a celebration.” He pauses when he reaches my glass, waiting for my permission before he fills it.
I give him an enthusiastic nod, taking the opportunity to send Luka a warning glare over my shoulder as I lift my glass for him.
Luka returns my glare with an amused look, the hint of a smirk pulling at his lips as his hand slips higher on my thigh. I make a weak attempt to slap it away, which only makes his grin widen as he clamps his hand tighter in an almost possessive grip. And I hate the way my stomach somersaults in response.
Perhaps if I hadn’t watched him jerk off, I wouldn’t have the dirty thoughts going through my mind… But sadly, I know too much… And all I can think about is how badly I want his hand to touch me with the same roughness and intensity.
Whoa… Where did that come from?
I feel my skin begin to heat at the wildly inappropriate image and try to steer my thoughts back to the conversation, remindingmyself that he’s just trying to distract me—or torment me—either way, it’s all mind games and nothing more.
“Scout, I hope you brought your appetite. I sort of went overboard with the side dishes,” Mrs. Kingsley says as she, Roman, and Mr. Kingsley file into the dining room carrying platters of food. She sets a beautiful golden roasted chicken down in the center as Mr. Kingsley and Roman fill in the gaps with various side dishes from mashed potatoes to green beans, to an heirloom tomato salad with cucumber and fresh basil.
“Bon Appétit. Dig in while it’s good and hot,” she says, and no sooner do the words leave her mouth, then Guy and Roman take her at her word and begin scooping piles of food onto their plates.
My mouth waters at the delicious aroma, and I can’t help but notice how different eating with the Kingsleys is compared to my family. There’s a bowl of fresh bread and butter, the food smells amazing, seasoned with aromatic spices that mingle together, and there’s so much color on the table.
When my family serves dinner, we’re lucky to have one side. My parents are the kind of people who consider garlic powder to be spicy.
Where I come from, food is a means to an end and is only served elaborately to impress guests. And you can forget about sides full of carbs. I couldn’t tell you the last time my mother was in the same vicinity as a piece of bread.
But not Mrs. Kingsley, one of her favorite love languages is feeding people, and tonight she held back nothing with this incredible spread. It’s as if she incorporated a little something for everyone, making sure they all feel her love for them.
Luka sets down a plate full of food in front of me—something he did before I could argue—and as if reading my mind, asks, “I thought Jett said he’d be here tonight?”
“He got tied up at work. Said he’d come later if he could get a chance,” Roman answers between bites, not even looking up from his plate.
“Fifty bucks says he ghosts us again,” Guy says without missing a beat.
Roman’s fork pauses midair as he turns to Guy and offers his hand in a shake. “You’re on.”
“Are you serious right now? You’re betting on whether your brother will show up?—”
Before she can finish scolding them, Mr. Kingsley wipes his mouth and adds, “A hundred bucks says he calls with an emergency that only he can deal with.”
Roman’s smile grows wider. “You’re on.”
Mrs. Kingsley smacks Mr. Kingsley on the back of the head.
“Ow… what’d you do that for?” He winces, turning to look at her like he’s shocked.
She blows out a huff and rolls her eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for encouraging them, much less getting in on it.”
“Mary, I’m merely taking advantage of a lucrative financial opportunity. It’s nothing personal.”
“You’ve been retired for less than a year, find a better hobby than betting on our children’s behavior, Frank!”
He flinches as if waiting for another smack, then shrugs and adds, “It’s not just our children,” he says defensively. “Just last week, I won a bet over whether Dr. Drizzle would unbutton more than three buttons on his shirt during his emergency weather broadcast.” He flashes her a cocky grin and points at himself. “And guess who was right? By the end of his ten-minute broadcast, that dirty bastard had undonefourbuttons on his shirtandrolled up his shirt sleeves! Can you believe it? On cable television for everyone to see!”
“Oh, now you’re just being jealous. Just because I have a new interest in meteorology, now you’re keeping tabs on the weather man.”
Mr. Kingsley narrows his eyes. “You recorded a tornado warning and watched it back three times over the course of a few days! Who watches a weather report from the past?”
