A laugh pops out unbidden. “It was in the Bridgeport Monthly a couple of years ago,” I confess. “It’s around here somewhere. The designer gave me a copy, thinking I’d be excited about it.”
“Were you?”
“Didn’t give a shit in the slightest,” I swear, holding up a hand as though testifying. “Have a seat. I’ll get us a drink. What would you like?”
“Water, please,” she answers as she sits on the couch. “With lemon or lime, if you have any. It makes it seem fancier than plain, and that’s how I trick myself into getting fruits and veggies into my diet.” A flush rises to her cheeks quickly, and she rushes to assure me, “Not that I eat like crap. It might not look like it, but I eat pretty healthy.”
“Luna, I don’t care what you do or don’t eat. You’re beautiful, and in case you didn’t notice, I was loving your thigh beneath my palm tonight.” I let my gaze drop slowly, methodically over her curves—from her breasts, to her hips, to the thighs in question. When I lift my eyes to hers once more, she’s staring at me in surprise, her lips parted in a soft circle.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush even further, but when she shifts on the sofa, it’s to show off her legs rather than hide them away. Her dress inches up a bit, and though she places her hand there, she doesn’t pull it back down.
Is Luna Starr flirting with me? If so, I am fucked.
I remind myself that she’s my best friend’s little sister, but when she pushes her glasses up her nose and looks at me through her lashes, I forget too easily. I already know I’m going to hell, but right now, the things I’m thinking of doing to those sweet thighs are enough to send me there on the fast track.
“Water!” I say too loudly, virtually running for the kitchen. This girl has me on edge, and the slightest encouragement from her, when it’s only the two of us and my bed is a mere twenty-five steps away—yes, I’ve counted—is danger waiting to happen.
In the kitchen, I take a couple of deep breaths, not to slow my racing heart but to give my cock a moment to soften. It’s not working, but I make her a glass of water, smiling as I drop in a ‘fancy’ lemon wedge, and a whiskey for myself. I’ve never hoped for whiskey dick before, but right now, a little help would go a long way.
When I return to the living room, Luna has taken her heels off, leaving them askew under the coffee table, and has her legs folded beneath her. I hand her the water glass and sit down beside her on the couch. “Feet hurt?”
“I don’t know who invented heels, but they must’ve been a sadist. Those things are killer, and I barely walked in them.” She throws a dirty look at the offending pain-inducers.
“Or a masochist?” I question.
I lean forward and set my drink on the table and then tap Luna’s knee. “Let me help.”
There are many, many more things I’d like to do to. Filthy, dangerous things. But rubbing her feet after she dressed up tonight seems relatively safe.
“You sure?” Even as she double-checks my willingness, she’s rearranging herself so that her legs are outstretched and her feet are in my lap. Thankfully, over my thighs and not touching my cock, which is reminding me that I should’ve taken that whiskey as a shot.
I take her left foot in my hands, running my thumb along her arch, and she groans. “Ohmagawd, I forget how much I’m on my feet.” I do it again to keep her talking. “I love the museum tours, but I’m on my feet for eight hours straight. And when I work at home, I’m usually barefoot, but I have a habit of curling up in weird positions. I don’t realize that I’ve pulled this or crunched that until it hurts.”
“Because you’re so focused on Alphena?” I guess.
She nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“Thank you for coming tonight. I know it was . . .” I search for a word as I press along the ball of her foot.
“Ridiculous?” she suggests. “Over the top? Stupid?”
I chuckle. “Difficult.”
She closes her eyes, laying her head over to the back of the couch to enjoy the massage as I find a particularly sensitive spot. “They’re not as bad as you made them out to be. Well, other than your dad.”
She goes quiet as I switch to her right foot, only the occasional moan and groan coming out as I work my magic. I don’t know what witchcraft she’s working on me, but words pour forth.
“He’s not that bad. Protective, mostly. Of the business, not us kids,” I explain. “We’re expected to have our shit together by this point and be able to handle it when he pushes us. But when we were young, he was the guy at our practices and games, checking our report cards, and even doctoring our boo-boos. When I was a little older, he’d look out for me, especially when he thought I was going the wrong way or making bad choices. I put him and Mom through the wringer, but they were a dream team, a united front at all times, no matter what I got up to.”
“I’m having a hard time picturing you getting into any real trouble.” She smiles at whatever image she has created in her mind. “But I can see your being delivered home by the police in the middle of the night for something like partying or trespassing. Maybe shoplifting for the thrill of it.”
“I wasn’t that kind of bad. I hate to admit it, but I was a douchebag. Entitled, didn’t understand hard work . . . lived like the world was my oyster, and I treated it like an all you can eat buffet. Dad warned me about friends, girls, and shit I was doing.” I slip my hands a little higher, working her ankles and up to her calves even as I remind myself, “That’s why I was glad when I met Zack. He’s the real deal. Smart, loyal, creative. I could see what my dad was talking about then, the difference in good people and how they can change everything. Zack helped me grow up.”
“He’s an okay brother,” she agrees. “He was too old to look out for me at school when I was younger, but he helped me learn that I’m okay exactly how I am. Kids would bully me because I’m weird. The teacher would be up at the board, and I’d be staring off into space, totally in my own world, not hearing a thing she said. But when she’d call on me, I could glance at the board and give the right answer. Stuff like that made other kids mad. And that was before I got into art. Then, I always had paint on my cheeks, charcoal under my nails, and was working on my tablet at a rapid-fire pace most people couldn’t understand. But my brain could. If I could get my fingers to move faster to keep up with my mind, I would’ve. I could look at the blank page and see what it would be, what I could help it become.” Her fingers twitch reflexively as she talks, and I wonder if she’s subconsciously drawing.
“Zack told me that he was like that . . . only with me. He could see what I would be.”
My hands have a mind of their own too, kneading and tracing over Luna’s knees and under the hem of her dress. “Luna?”
She opens her eyes, looking at me clear-eyed and focused. Her legs shift open the slightest bit, giving me greater access to her thighs and ultimately, to her core. The scent of her arousal fills my nostrils, and I have to hold myself back from diving into the source of that sweetness.