Chapter Seven #3
It made her think of Jack, twice his size, carefully negotiating every turn, every corner, every delicate little trinket-filled revolving display stand. And of course that only made her madder on his behalf. Doubly so when he didn’t let it go.
“But it could still happen regardless. I could end up in one of your armpits.”
“Even if you do, I don’t care. You have my permission to plunge under there.”
“Yeah, and what if I crush you when I do? I just don’t know how much pressure to apply,” he protested. “I could shatter your ribs with my giant hands. Or pulverize your spine just by flexing my massive biceps.”
“Now it just sounds like you’re bragging.”
“Kid, I once ripped a toilet off a wall while trying to flush it. When I first got to how I am now, I regularly snapped handles off when I went to open things and yanked drapes down that I only wanted to close and smashed screens that I was sure I had just delicately tapped.”
“Yeah, and it’s been years since your first growth spurt. Not to mention only a few days since you held my ankle like a ball of spun sugar. You did it so lightly I can’t even remember what that pressure felt like, so stop worrying. And if you can’t stop worrying, then let me just—”
She didn’t pause to think. She just reached to her sides and got hold of his hands as best she could.
Then when he didn’t immediately yank away, she slowly, slowly lowered them down.
Inch by inch, in a way that felt like the right move in the moment.
But less and less like the right move as time went on.
She could feel that heat, slowly warming the air between them.
Building and building, until her sides felt as if they were about to burst into flames.
Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d worn something thicker, because the thin cardigan and leaf-covered cotton dress she’d chosen were going to dissolve any second now.
Then his red-hot hands would be on her bare skin.
And not just any bare skin, either. The soft, sensitive strips of it just to either side of her breasts.
Barely a thumb stroke away from touching those heavy curves—and especially for him, with those enormous hands.
If he did anything but keep all his fingers pressed together, he’d end up touching her there.
It was the reason she eased them down, and more toward her back.
But that didn’t help. Now that prickling, overheated air was on the curve of her body just before her ass.
The tips of his fingers were definitely going to reach the dimple she had at the base of her spine.
Maybe even the first swell of her there, where the elastic of her panties would probably be obvious through her dress.
Worse: she’d worn silky briefs with a lacy top.
And that was probably going to say more than she’d intended to.
It’ll look like you did it on purpose, in case things go further than practicing is supposed to go , she thought, then almost stopped short.
In fact, she probably would have done, if it hadn’t been for two things: the tentative way he kept every finger together so it didn’t touch beyond the place she put them.
And his reaction when full contact was made.
She actually felt him relax, all in one big go.
Like he’d been holding himself tense up until that point, but now somehow knew he didn’t have to.
Or maybe he just couldn’t resist, once he felt what hugging was really like.
He had to lean into it, so completely that it actually felt like someone sagging against her.
She was almost holding him up after a moment.
But it didn’t feel bad.
He didn’t weigh on her.
Instead, she thought of being surrounded, protected, comforted.
She felt his head actually rest on top of hers, gently, so gently.
And realized that it wasn’t just him who hadn’t ever known something like this.
She wasn’t sure she had, either. All she could really remember were pinched, one-armed sorts of things from her mother.
Stern looks from her father. A thousand people around town who didn’t want to be her friend, a ton of dates who found her too overwhelming.
The closest she’d ever gotten to friendship was Cassie.
Or maybe Marley, over at the Gazette . Though Marley wasn’t really the hugging type.
She was prickly, bristly. A pat on the back was enough to say she was your buddy.
So this? This was a lot. It was enough that she thought maybe her eyes were starting to sting—and doubly so when she felt what his hand was doing on her back.
Just a little, but she could feel it intensely.
He was rubbing her.
Like maybe he knew that she needed this, too.
At which point she had to do something. It was all just feeling too real, and too nice, and they hadn’t even gotten to the date part yet.
If she didn’t get ahold of herself soon she was going to do some very inadvisable things the second they did.
Like make a whole ridiculous sound when he slid one hand under her hair.
Innocently, she thought.
He obviously hadn’t meant anything by it.
But he did it, and she reacted, and when she did, oh, the way he whipped that hand away.
The sheer speed with which he stepped back.
She blushed to see it, hard enough that she had to hide it.
She turned away, toward his bedroom, before he could catch it, and when that didn’t seem like enough she added a few words on the end.
“We should get to picking you an outfit.”
And to her relief, he seemed to agree.
She was safe.
Until she realized, as she started going through his clothes:
Now her entire job was to make him look even hotter than he already did.
With the memory of that hand in her hair, still searing a hole through her body.