Over both of us.
Then, he reaches forward and hits play — again, like it’s no big deal, like the heat from his body isn’t enveloping every inch of me now, like the lower half of us isn’t hidden from view, which somehow makes me a lot more aware of how much of our bodies are touching.
Every place that was cold just seconds ago feels like it’s on fire now, but I let out a subtle, long exhale and take a sizeable drink of water to try to calm myself down. After a while, it’s just like before, both of us caught up in the movie so much that I forget about what’s happening under the blanket altogether.
Or at least, I assume Greg is caught up in the movie, too.
Until the exact moment I feel a pinky against my thigh.
The touch is so soft, so tenuous that I almost wonder if I’m imagining it. But then he moves it, one slow line of a caress over my leggings.
Instantly, my heartbeat is in my ears, pounding so loud I can’t hear the movie at all anymore. Not that I could focus on it now if I wanted to. I can’t focus on anything other than the side of his finger on my thigh.
I don’t dare look at him, don’t dare acknowledge that I feel it, but I hear him swallow, the sound loud enough to drown out the movie soundtrack.
And then, another finger slides over my leg.
My next breath lodges in my throat, ears ringing, but I don’t move. I don’t lean into the touch, but I don’t pull away, either.
Time stretches and warps and flies out of sync as Greg grows bolder and bolder, his fingers playing softly at the edge of my leg. Then, slowly, he slides all five of them up and over, his hand resting firmly on top of my thigh now, fingertips just barely rounding the flesh to dip between my legs.
I can’t move.
I can’t fucking breathe.
Everything that I am, every bit of awareness I have is zeroed in on where his palm rests on me. My heart races furiously in my chest — so much so I wonder if this is it, if this is how I go.
A heart attack from being touched by Doctor Greg Weston.
He won’t acknowledge it either, his eyes fixed on the screen like he’s still watching the movie when we both know damn well he’s not. I can sense it, how tense he is, how fast his heart is charging, too.
His palm is hot where it touches me, and again, I hear the distinct sound of him swallowing.
Touch me, I dare silently.
I shouldn’t want it. I should pull away and tear the blanket off me and break whatever is happening right now. I should remind him every reason we can’t cross the already very thin line drawn between us.
But his hand slips ever so slightly, fingers curling even more around my inner thigh, and I feel possession and primal need flow through the touch to my very core.
I have to suppress a moan, my next inhale stiff and short as I bite my lip and try to keep my heart as steady as I can. Another moment goes by, and then another slow, delicate slip of his fingers — up, and in, the warmth of my inner thighs meeting his advance.
My muscles clench between my legs, the temptation to squirm too much to fight with how close he is to touching the part of me aching for him so badly, it’s physically uncomfortable. I don’t need to have my own hand down there to know I’m wet and throbbing, and that if he does it, if he tries, I won’t say no.
God, how could I?
He stays there a long while, not moving any farther. But his grip is more confident now, fingertips pressing into my skin, palm splaying over my thigh.
A breath, shallow and shaky, and then the edge of his pinky brushes along the seam between my legs.
I close my eyes on a ragged exhale, lips parting, walls clenching with need. When I open my eyes again, I can’t fight it anymore.
I turn to face him, and his eyes find mine, and I fixate on the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat as he runs that devilish pinky along my seam once more.
“Greg,” I breathe.
As if I conjured him, as if me saying his name dissipated the last bit of his restraint, he leans into me, his hand fully palming me as I spread my knees wider. His lips are on track for mine, ready to catch the gasp I just released.
And then my phone rings.
Loud and shrill, vibrating and ringing from the coffee table, it jolts us both out of the moment.
Tucker is wailing in the next instant.