Page 88 of Show Me How
“Nope,” I half lie. His soft laugh makes it clear he doesn’t believe me, but I push to my next point without giving his curiosity any more attention. “I burnt Kraft Dinner the other day, so I can’t guarantee I won’t burn the place down by accident.”
“Fuck, you’re something else,” he muses, draping an arm along the back of the bench. I don’t move away when he strokes my shoulder. Not when it warms me on a level I refuse to analyze right now. “So, I’ll keep you away from the kitchen. Problem solved.”
“Shade.”
“Millie,” he drawls. “I don’t care what you do to the place. We’ve already established that I’m more than comfortable sharing my space with you. Stop trying to make me take the offer back. I don’t give a shit about the faults you believe are bad enough to have me changing my mind.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It is, and I’m sorry you’ve been treated so poorly in the past that you’ve learned to second-guess the validity of kindness when it’s offered to you.”
I suck in a sharp breath. An invisible hand squeezes my throat. Suddenly, it’s too hard to look at him.
“Your parents sound like pieces of work, princess. I’m glad you got away from them,” he adds, his tone gentler now. “Let’s forget about them for a bit. How do you feel about a distraction?”
I follow his line of sight to the photo booth between the trees. It looks worse for wear, old enough that it leans slightly to one side. There are scuffs on the side where the generic samples of different photo layouts are, and I can only imagine what the inside looks like.
“Is that thing even safe?” I ask, nose crinkling.
Shade drops his arm from the bench to my shoulders, tapping his fingers to the fabric of my jacket. “Let’s find out.”
“Fuck it,” I mutter.
His laugh is rough with surprise. “That’s the spirit.”
We stand together, and Shade keeps me anchored beneath his arm. I rub my palms against my thighs before remembering where he brought my hand the last time we walked this closely together. My heart gallops when I shift one to the back pocket of his jeans. His chest shakes with a low chuckle that I use as encouragement. This time, when I slip my fingers into the pocket, I let them spread wide and mould to the shape of his ass.
He waits until he tugs the photo booth curtain open before speaking, his gaze heating my cheek.
“You can squeeze.” That sinful half smile of his returns. “See if you like it.”
“You’re shameless.”
With a shift of his body, he lets his arm fall and reaches behind him to cover my hand over his pocket. I bite back a laugh when he squeezes it for me, his eyes bright.
“See? That was easy,” he says before removing my hand entirely and using it to tug me with him into the booth.
I let myself fall forward into it. The space is immediately cramped with him in it, but with the both of us, the air grows warm and sticky. Hands palm my hips, and then I’m being tugged backward. Shade’s lap catches me.
“How risky are you feeling today?” he asks lowly, the hint of something dangerous twirled around the words. The heat of his breath fans the back of my ear, and I shiver. “Close the curtain.”
The change in me is so sudden it should be terrifying. I feel the flicker of arousal in my toes first. They curl of their own accord, and then I’m leaning against Shade’s chest, lust creating a buzz beneath my skin.
Letting my head roll back onto his shoulder, I reach over and close the curtain. The screen in front of us moves, and suddenly, there we are. It’s jarring. I part my lips and stare at myself in the camera. The loose hair, wide-blown eyes, and relaxed posture have me almost unrecognizable.
Then, there’s Shade. The man behind me keeps his hands out of view, running them down my sides and over to palm my stomach. His head is tipped down, our jaws rubbing. He’s staring at where he’s touching me, ignoring the camera, before suddenly flicking his eyes up.
I trap a moan in my throat at the flames in his intense brown gaze. Even like this, I can feel howdeephe can see me. How he’s managed to slip past the guards and through the maze I’ve constructed to keep people out of my mind.
“Choose the kind of photos you want,” he instructs softly, fingers slipping to my thigh and beneath the hem of my dress.
I don’t move. Not until I part my thighs.
Shade’s tongue wets his lips, and I watch the screen as he dips that branding stare lower to where I’m spread. Then, he’sslipping a hand beneath my thigh and pulling it up to drape over his. The heat in the booth cranks to sweltering.
“Concentrate, Millie. Choose the photos.”
How?
