He nods. “I get to choose which one.”
“Don’t be greedy.”
He smirks again, and my first instinct is to moan. My body is screaming for him, and I can picture him perfectly, on top of me, pushing into me, that stupid smirk still on his innocent face.
“Rules are rules, young lady.”
His words make my brain fuzzy. His smile is bigger now, braver. It’s fascinating the way he shifts from teenager to man, being submissive one second and commanding the room the next. He steps toward me, further shedding the teenage boy, and reaches for my hand. I let him take it. I’m mesmerized.
I straighten my back as he approaches me. His hands are cold when they wrap around mine. I love how he makes me feel so small, even though I’m close to his height. My height used to be such an insecurity of mine. I remember when my abuelita told me that men loved women they could put in their pockets. She was tiny herself, hence we called her abuelita. Every woman on my mother’s side of the family is tiny: small frame, small hips, small feet. But not me.
At five foot seven, I’m taller than my mother and her mother. I’m taller than Stausey, and my big hips were a topic at many family dinners. Legend has it that I get my frame from my mother’s abuela. She was said to have to make her own pants because her backside was just that big.
“Why so quiet now?” Landon asks.
He has me cornered again, but has let go of my hand. I can touch him; just one little touch won’t hurt.
I lift my hand to his face and caress the curve of his cheek. His cheekbones are prominent, which sometimes reminds me of a frat boy somehow. Landon has the looks of an asshole and the heart of a puppy.
I tell him that he needs to answer the question first. I want to know how often he thinks of taking me. I run my finger over his pink lips, tracing the soft shape of them. The curve of his nose is slight, and his eyes close under my touch.
“How often do you think about fucking me?” I repeat.
His eyes flutter under the lids, but he keeps them closed.
“Is it as often as I think about you?” My words are as audible as a sigh, but I know he can hear them. I continue to touch him, to admire the sharp line of his jaw. “Because I think about you fucking me in so many ways. I touch myself while thinking about you, and I don’t mind admitting that.” I lean closer to him, and his chest rises and falls.
The tension in this room will choke us both.
“Do you do the same, Landon? Do you think about how it would feel?”
I cup his face in my hands, and his eyes open halfway.
Under hooded eyes, his body calls back to me. He shifts his legs and pushes one thigh between mine. He lifts his leg up, so his thigh presses against me. The ache in my stomach tightens.
“I do.” A hint of rasp coats his low voice. “I think about you all the time. The last time . . .” He looks toward the kitchen table and back to my face, and rests his eyes on my mouth. He’s so close that I can smell the sweetness of his drink on his tongue.
“The last time was . . .” I trail off. I feel drowsy under him.
Landon’s eyes open farther, and his hands grab my hips. His mouth is on mine before I can push through the fog in my brain.