The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(67)

“Meatloaf—do you like it?”

“Um, I’m not sure I ever had it.”

“Really?” She sits up to look at me and I catch myself getting lost in her beautiful, expressive eyes. “Pops made it for me a couple of times. He never made it for you?”

“No, but a loaf of meat sounds appetizing. Why do you ask?”

She tilts her head to the side, a humorous scrunch in her nose. “Uh, because that’s what they’re eating in the movie.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

She studies me some more. “Are you even paying attention to the movie?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

I swear she can see straight through me, her thoughtful gaze penetrating down to my soul. “You’re not paying attention.”

“How dare you call me out on such a thing? Of course I’m watching a Christmas classic.”

She pokes my bare stomach. “You’re such a liar.”

“Well . . . you’re not watching right now either.”

“Because you aren’t. What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I answer quickly. The universal cover-up of I don’t want to talk about it.

“That’s convincing.” She sits up completely, pausing the movie and looking me in the eyes. “What were you doing?”

“You know, if we’re going to finish this movie before Santa comes, we better press play.”

“Crew, I’m serious. Did you really not want to watch it?”

I sigh. “No, I did. I’m just . . .” Jesus Christ, how do I say this without sounding like a total pervert? “Just lost in my thoughts.”

“About Pops?”

“No.” Shit, I should have said yes. That would have been an easy escape out of this inquisition.

“Then what were you thinking about?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?” I laugh and attempt to pull her back to my chest. “Let’s just enjoy the movie.”

She studies me for a few more beats before she lies back down—on my chest—her hand going right above the waistband of my pants. I can feel the warmth of her palm seeping into my skin. I swear to God, she’s doing this on purpose—trying to tease me—and if that’s the case, maybe I should do the same.

I attempt to pay attention to the movie, but instead, my mind is plotting what I can do to drive her crazy, what could I do that would— Fuck.

Her fingers are slowly stroking my skin. So fucking deliberate that I feel I’m going to die a slow death of anticipation, of wondering what it would feel like if her hand inched lower with every stroke she made. Then her foot glides up my calf and then back down.

Yup, she’s fucking with me.

She has to be.

And, yup, I’m pretty sure I can feel her little pebbled nipples pressing against my chest and side, as well.

But what can I do? One hand is positioned at the iPad, holding it up and steady, and my other hand is draped behind her. I feel almost trapped. Not being able to make a move without being obvious. The only option I have is my hand behind her back.

Her fingers dip closer and closer to my waistband, and my groin is stirring.

Now or never.

My fingers trail over her side close to her stomach and then back to her hip. She sucks in a sharp breath and stiffens beneath my touch, and I almost apologize, but then she relaxes with one more pass over her side.

Good.

Smiling, I continue to glide my fingers over her side, and with each drag up, her nightgown rises higher and higher.

I trace the curve of her side, down her hip and dangerously close to her ass. Her hand on my stomach pauses, and her breath catches. That tiny breath turns up the heat in the room, and I’m not sure either of us are paying attention to the movie at this point.

I continue to draw circles over her side and back, continuing to slowly pull her nightgown farther and farther up until it’s barely covering her ass. Is she wearing a thong? Regular underwear? Something . . . sexy?

Nah, Hazel wouldn’t wear anything sexy. She doesn’t seem the type. At least, not to wear something sexy with her nightgown. Not that it matters at this point. If it were up to me, underwear is underwear—it’s supposed to be coming off anyway, so who cares what it looks like?

“Could you imagine growing up in this era?” she asks casually, her pinky finger dipping just barely under the waistband of my briefs.

I bite down on my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to not show my excitement, trying desperately to keep things under control.

“No,” I answer strained.

And she catches my tone, because she glances up at me, her pinky sliding farther. “You okay?”

Is she kidding me right now?

Not being able to hold back anymore, I ask, “Does it look like I’m okay?”

She chuckles. “No. It looks like you’re turned on.”

“Hmm, I wonder why that is. Maybe because your hand is down my pants.” I call her out and her cheeks blush in the most perfect way ever.

“My hand was not down your pants. You were the one who was practically stripping me out of my nightgown.”

“Uh, because you were playing feather fingers on my stomach.”

“Feather fingers?” She laughs. “What’s that?”