Page 163 of Merry Me
“Oh, I’m watching,” he murmured, his voice like a caress. “I’ve seen that scene a hundred times. But this view…” His fingers brushed higher, just grazing the edge of heat and sin. “Is entirely exclusive.”
My legs tensed. My pulse pounded.
“Easton,” I hissed.
“Shh,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along my temple. “You’ll miss my best scene.”
On screen, a war-torn village crumbled in slow motion. Ash fell like snow as Easton’s character emerged from the ruins, bloodied and desperate, jaw clenched with anguish.
The entire theater leaned forward, breathless.
Except me.
I was trying not tomoan.
His fingertips were unforgivable. Gentle, torturous, claiming. He never pushed—just lingered. Let the barest hint of promise whisper between us. His knuckles brushed so high I thought I’d combust right there in the Dolby Theatre.
“You’re unbelievable,” I managed, gripping the armrest hard enough to leave fingerprints.
He hadn’t even reached the danger zone yet. He was toying with me, aware of every small twitch, every inhale. He knew exactly what he was doing.
His lips brushed my ear. “You’re tense,” he whispered, his voice a low, wicked murmur. “Should I help you relax?”
I clenched the armrest with my left hand and grabbed his wrist with my right. “You are not going to finger me during your own premiere,” I hissed.
His grin touched his voice. “Technically, I wasn’t planning to go that far. But now that you’ve said it…”
“Easton.”
“You started this, baby.”
The woman beside me sniffled. She was crying.
Fucking hell, I thought. People are in actual emotional distress because of the man on the screen, and the man beside me is trying to get me to come apart without making a sound.
His fingers crept higher.
On screen, his character was continuing to break down, sobbing in the arms of another actor, the musical score soaring in a way that would have given me chills if I wasn’t already drowning in them for an entirely different reason.
“I can’t focus,” I whispered through clenched teeth.
“Exactly.”
A soft gasp escaped me as his thumb brushed along my inner thigh, his movements infuriatingly slow. Teasing. Gentle. Nothing overt. But intentional enough that every nerve ending in my body flared to life.
I squirmed in my seat, completely regretting the whole no-underwear thing.
He stilled his hand and chuckled softly. “Behave,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”
“I swear on Ari Lancaster’s ass,” I muttered. “If I black out during your Oscar-winning scene because you’re playing the piano on my thighs, I’m going to murder you.”
“Just for the fact that you said another man’s name, I’m going to be even worse.”
He shifted slightly closer, tucking his shoulder into mine. To everyone else, we looked like any other couple watching a movie—maybe whispering about the scene, maybe sharing a sweet moment.
But beneath the shadows, he was completely unraveling me.
My breath caught as his knuckles brushed impossibly close to where I was aching for him. So, so close.
