Page 116 of Merry Me
And Easton Maddox in a suit was…a problem.
His thigh brushed mine every time he shifted, which, for the record, was a lot. Like he was doing it on purpose. Like he knew exactly what it was doing to me. Which—judging by the smug curve of his mouth every time it happened—he absolutely did.
His shoulder bumped mine. Once. Twice. A little whisper of contact that felt more like a dare. The navy blazer he wore should’ve made him look stiff. Corporate. But no, of course not. It hugged him like it had fallen in love and was never letting go. And don’t even get me started on the scruff. Or the snow-mussed hair. Or the fact that his scent was making me go feral.
Our knees brushed under the table. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.Then again. A little longer. A little bolder. The third time, his knee didn’t leave mine.
It stayed.
And not just stayed…itpressed. Firm. Deliberate. Like he was staking a claim.
And it wasn’t just ahey,I’m next to youkind of touch. No. It was aHey,I remember what you sound like when I curl my finger inside you just right,and I’m not done yetkind of press.
My stomach did a full-on backflip. My breath caught somewhere around my collarbone. And I just sat there, pretending I was still following Levi’s story about Paige and the tragic poinsettia incident at his parents’ house.
Just in case you were wondering…I wasn’t.
Easton reached for his wine, and the edge of his sleeve brushed mine—silk gliding against wool, slow and unbothered, like he wasn’t setting off tiny explosions along the length of my arm.
I stared at my plate like it might ground me. But all it offered was a Jackson Pollock of roasted vegetables and high-end salad regret.
My brain had fully left the building.
His flirty touches had sent it back to the mall bathroom while Easton dropped to his knees like a man with a mission and absolutely no shame. My fingers tangled in his hair, my breath stuttering while he looked up at me like I was something to worship. And then he’d smirked—smirked—before dragging his tongue over me like he had all the time in the world.
Yeah. That’s where my brain was.
Not here. Not at this wholesome rehearsal dinner with cider and candles and emotional vulnerability.
How was I expected to concentrate on dinner rolls at a time like this?
Levi raised his glass, his voice mellow and nostalgic as hecontinued his toast, now talking about their first kiss. Everyone smiled. Heads turned. Someone might have actually teared up.
I wouldn’t know.
Because Easton’s hand had started sliding beneath the tablecloth.
His palm found my knee. And the second it had settled on my skin, something low and molten lit up in my bloodstream. Like he’d flipped a switch inside me that was wired to him. My spine went rigid. My breath caught. The world around me blurred into a watercolor smear of flickering candles and soft piano music I wasn’t hearing.
He didn’t look at me.
That was the worst part.
He just sat there, like he wasn’t actively setting fire to every nerve ending I possessed, his expression politely attentive to the toast.
But there was the smallest curve to his lips. Barely there. A private joke only I could feel.
And then…because he was evil…his thumb started to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Lazy little circles that burned hotter with every pass, like he was testing how far he could push before I combusted.
My fingers curled around my fork in a death grip. I stared hard at my plate, trying to remember what food even was.
My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out the clink of silverware, the sighs of appreciation over the butternut squash ravioli, the way Paige looked like a fairy-tale princess across the table.
His fingers inched higher.
I snapped my eyes to him. “Easton…” I hissed.
