Page 61 of Resistance Training
I stop doing that.
“You’re a fucking coward,” she whispers.
I am tense as a coiled snake that’s about to attack. “Not falling for it.”
She leans in, an inch from my face, lips parted. “Oh, yes you are.”
One inch. One inch separates my mouth from hers. One inch and eight years. And I can smell that strawberry daiquiri she drank, and I want to taste it on her tongue. But I won’t.
Because she swipes my phone, pulls the beanie off my head, grabs her jacket, and unlocks the passenger door.
“Vivian.”
I turn off the engine.
“Come and get me, Coach!” She hops out and runs up the path to her front porch. Doesn’t even close the car door.
Fuck.
She leaves the front door open.
By the time I walk through the front door, carefully closing it behind me, she’s sitting in the middle of an overstuffed sofa in the small living room. Knees together, feet spread apart on the floor. There are, like, three hundred peach-colored glowing Himalayan salt lamps in here. It’s cozy and feminine, and I really like the vibe.
I see a little black-and-white blur dash out of the room. I guess that’s Hairy Styles, and I guess he still doesn’t like me, and I really don’t care right now, because Vivian Sparks is daring me to fuck her and I’m not going to. But I am going to make her suffer in the absolute best way possible for both of us, and she’s going to be so, so sorry she decided to play this game with me.
I stand before her.
She stares up at me. Her hands are behind her back. She’s probably hiding my phone and my beanie. She bends her right leg. I can tell she’s feeling stiff, but she lifts her leg and places the sole of her boot against my chest. She watches me as she presses the heel into my rectus abdominis. Not too hard, but hard enough. “Take my boots off.”
I grip the bottom of her thigh with both hands and slide my right hand down past her knee. Her boot is leather, and it hugs her calf pretty tight. I trace along the top of it with the tip of my index finger, around to the zipper. I unzip it slowly, all the way down, pulling it off her foot. She rests the sole of her foot against my abs again, stares up at me, her lips parted, and lets that foot slide down, down, down, so slowly, until I catch her heel and pull it away just before it reaches my crotch. I am so glad I changedout of sweatpants and into jeans, or there would have been a significant protrusion for her to rest her foot on.
Pressing herself down and back into the sofa cushions, she bends her left leg into her chest. Her upper thighs are exposed, but she’s squeezing them together, wriggling around a little. There must be so much tension between those legs, and I am going to make it so much worse.
CHAPTER 17
VIVIAN
It’s hard to believe that only one week ago, I was on this sofa with Hairy Styles on a Saturday night, in the pajamas I’d been wearing since the night before, eating old-fashioned donut holes and potato chips while watchingPractical Magicon my iPad. I enjoyed that a lot. But this is maybe just a little bit more fun.
Brad slowly pushes up the sleeves of his Henley, exposing his forearm candy, smirking as he watches me stare at those veins. Evil. He’s just evil. Then he grabs the ankle of my bent leg with one hand and unzips the boot with the other, real fast this time, yanking it off my foot, tossing it away. Every muscle in my body is sore from working out, but it’s my clitoral muscle that is suffering the most. Is it a muscle? I don’t know. It’s an angry, horny bitch right now, and if I don’t start humping Brad’s leg immediately it will somehow make its way to the vibrator in my bedside drawer all by itself.
“Take your shirt off,” I say in my most commanding voice.
“No.”
“Fine.” I shrug, super nonchalant. “I’ll take off mine, then.” This was my plan anyway—force him to deal with my amazingtits. And I would definitely pull this shirt off over my head right now if my stupid sore arms would let me.
“No,” he says, way too calmly. “You won’t.”
He’s rubbing my heel with the palm of his hand, digging his fist into the arch of my foot, kneading the flesh of the ball of my foot.
“Shit,” I whisper. That feels amazing.Why does it feel like you’re stroking between my legs, damn you?
“You’re sore all over, aren’t you,” he says. It isn’t really a question.
“Not really.” I almost believe myself.
“Liar.” He massages my entire foot with both hands, and my stomach dips. “You can’t fool me. Your legs are stiff.”
