Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)
Feeling more confident, more brazen than I’ve ever felt in my life, I turn and stand on my tiptoes. It’s my mouth on his ear, my breath hot against his skin. In a voice so low I can barely hear it myself, I whisper, “I’m so wet for you, Lance Gibson, I’m going to have to take my panties off.”
His jaw falls to the floor. I get a quick glance at it before I have to look away so he doesn’t see the pink in my cheeks.
“Come on. Let’s get lunch,” I call out, walking away as quickly as I can.
Eighteen
Lance
“He’s a monster,” I add, not sure what more to say. Eric has been attempting to make small talk the entire meal. Two things are clear: one, he’s no Einstein and two, his sense of humor is nil.
He continues on about the new fighter out of Crew Gentry’s gym in Boston like he knows something about fighting. His terminology is all wrong, explanations of fighting styles downright backward, and he fumbles through it with the confidence that only an idiot can have. It’s kind of impressive in a strange, uncomfortable way.
Keeping an eye on Mariah, I take off my glasses and clean them with a napkin. She’s said just enough during the meal to remain polite and sophisticated. Her back, though, is rigid. Her shoulders are as stiff as a board.
While I listen to Eric babble on, I rest my arm over the back of her chair. She leans toward it. I only notice because I’m paying attention.
My hand goes to the back of her neck, working the tense muscles back and forth. My touch alone causes her to relax some, but as I press back and forth, her entire body slackens.
She molds to my hand. She bends as I press on her delicate skin and she shifts in her seat. My fingertips stroke up her spine and draw back down. Listening to Eric’s stumbling story takes more effort than I care to spare.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I say in an attempt at getting him to shut up, “but Pike isn’t as strong on the ground. I know he’s with Gentry now and that was his specialty, but he doesn’t have the skills Crew had. Not yet, anyway. Watch his footwork while he’s standing and then watch him scramble when his back hits the mat. He wants to be upright.”
“I guess you’re right.”
No shit.
Betsy’s cries can be heard softly from the living room. Chrissy shoves away from the table, but Taylor gets to her feet first. “Let me go, Chris. I can’t enough of those precious snuggles.”
Chrissy settles down across from Mariah once again. While she chitchats with Eric about Betsy’s feeding schedule, Mariah focuses her attention on me.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. You?” she asks sweetly, like she already knows the answer. She rests her palm on my thigh. Her fingers flex against the denim, taunting me with how close she is to my cock.
I haven’t been able to erase her tease from earlier. I’ve sat the last forty-five minutes wondering just how wet she really is.
It still surprises me when she says things like that, things that remind me of Nerdy Nurse. It was sexy before, but paired with the proper librarian I know from my nine-to-five makes it perfection. This is the things songs are written about.
Dirty, raunchy, hip-hop songs.
Maybe sweet country ones too.
This is my problem.
We trade a secret smile. My hand clasps around the corner of her shoulder, pulling her closer to me. Eric’s gaze sits square on the side of my face. I want to look at him and tell him exactly what he’s missing, everything he tossed away. The problem is he’s been inside her and I haven’t and that little detail gnaws away at me until I’m almost raw inside.
It’s not a competition. She doesn’t want him. It’s my thigh her hand is on. But there’s a carnal need swirling around my gut, begging me to mark her. To leave an imprint on her that she won’t be able to forget as easily as she’s forgotten him. To bind her like she has bound me.
Drawing a line down her arm, I lean towards her, angling my head away from the others, I whisper, “Still wet?”
“Are you still touching me?” she breathes. “Pretty self-explanatory.”
“Your hand is killing me,” I warn. “If you move it any closer …”
She leans her head just enough to block anyone from seeing my reaction as she glides her palm down my swollen shaft. Hissing, I move in my seat, trying not to make a spectacle but almost coming undone.
“You’re evil,” I tell her.
Mariah’s eyes dance with a lightness I’m not sure I’ve seen before. It makes the entire dinner, including the forced conversation with Eric, and even the weird looks from Taylor worth it to see her this way. Her laughter pulls Chrissy’s attention our way.