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He glances up, and I can feel his gaze dissecting me. A few seconds go by and then a few more.
“I’m wondering if your skin is as soft as it looks. Or if you wore that lip gloss again, the one that tastes like strawberries. And I’m wondering if Johnny got to sample it.”
I swallow hard. There’s so much pent-up tension between us right now that I could suffocate in it.
“If you wanted to taste my lip gloss, Ollie, all you had to do was ask.”
He moves in slow motion as he reaches for me. His hands land on the outside of my legs, just below the edge of my skirt. His grip is soft, but his fingers are rough with calluses from years of playing hockey. My skin pebbles with chill bumps beneath his hands, though his touch is warm. It’s such a natural progression, Ollie reaching for me. Yet it feels so foreign at the same time. It’s just like us and our relationship over the past few days … a constant contradiction. Push and then pull.
His thumbs stroke my thighs. I close my eyes and exhale hard.
“See, that’s the thing, Mads …” he murmurs. “I’m more of a take-what-I-want kind of guy. I’m not very good at asking permission.”
I can barely concentrate on his words when he’s touching me like this. I subconsciously widen my stance to try to anchor my body while my eyes slowly open again.
“Is that right?” My voice breaks.
His fingers drift higher, taking the hem of my skirt with them. I don’t stop him. His head falls forward until his forehead is resting against my stomach. My center aches.
“Did you kiss him?” he asks.
His question is gruff, and he tenses while he waits for me to answer. For once, I feel like I hold his emotions in the palm of my hand, which is ironic because Ollie is normally so unemotional.
“Yes,” I breathe out honestly.
His hands freeze, and I silently beg him not to pull away. Now that he’s touching me, I don’t want him to stop.
His thumbs start stroking the tops of my thighs again. He’s no more than an inch away from my panty line.
“Was it good?” he asks.
“It was … nice.”
He scoffs and inches his hands higher until his thumbs reach the edge of my lacy underwear. I always try to wear nice bras and panties. It somehow gives me unspoken confidence, knowing I have something sexy on underneath my clothes. I wear them for me and me alone. But right now, if Ollie is going to see them, I’m glad I wore something seductive for him too.
“Is that how you would describe our kiss in the alleyway?” he asks. “Nice?” He spits the word like it’s negative.
I bite my lower lip when the pads of his thumbs slip beneath the lacy border hidden by my skirt. “No.”
“No … you wouldn’t describe our kiss as nice?” There’s a dangerous edge to his question, like he’s baiting me or challenging me to say our interaction that night was ordinary when it was anything but that. “What was it then?”
“It was explosive”—I tense when his thumbs sweep a wider portion of forbidden skin, pulling the material of my panties tighter across my core—“and unexpected … and …”
I lose my words when his fingers tighten their grip on my hips.
“And?” he practically growls.
“It was everything.”
He looks up at me. At this angle, the light from outside allows me to see the intensity of his eyes. There’s no playfulness in his expression. No lightheartedness. There’s nothing but chaos and turmoil swimming in his gaze. Passion. He’s a live wire, humming with electricity and something that I can’t identify because I’ve never seen it in him before.
“You’re damn right it was everything. And everything is a lot different from nice.” He sneers the last word. “You know what that tells me?”
“What?” I search between both of his eyes, looking for answers I’m not sure I’m going to find.
But he’s confident and sure when he utters his next sentence.
“That guy … Johnny … he’s not it.”
