Zebb looks at me before swiping at hair dangling out from beneath my knit cap. “Nothing about you is cheap.”
There’s a compliment in there somewhere and I softly smile.
The game plays and Zebb switches his left hand over mine for his right to keep my hand pressed to his upper thigh. His arm wraps around me and he tugs me into his side. I shiver against him.
“Cold?”
“Only a little.”
Quickly, he maneuvers the sleeping bag up and over our shoulders. The material is double wide but covers more of me than him.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I have all the warmth I need.” He tightens his arm around me which is tucked under the cover of the thicker material.
We sit like this for only a few minutes, Zebb calling out when a play goes well, or grumbling when a fumble happens. My dad loved football and watching it was something we did together when I was younger. That doesn’t mean I understand the game. Still, the enthusiasm for the sport ripples off Zebb and his family members, and I settle into his side, laughing at their antics.
“Scramble to the left, Nick.”
“Catch it, damn it.”
“Aw. What was that call?”
The chatter is its own soundtrack.
Zebb’s hand slips from over mine and slides over my thigh. Gently, he squeezes while his arm around my back tugs me tighter to him.
The game continues but I can’t seem to concentrate on anything other than Zebb’s fingers kneading my upper leg and dipping between my thighs. His fingers stretch and clench. He isn’t near the promised-land, but he’s close, working me up with just a simple squeeze and a constant tease against my leg.
A rhythm beats between my thighs, matching the occasional thump of the band’s percussion section.
I tighten my hold on his thicker thigh. He’d brought my palm higher up his leg. If I were to stretch my fingers, I’d brush against something I probably shouldn’t be thinking about touching as I sit in the stands of a high school football game.
“Are you enjoying the game?” Zebb’s question is low at my ear. His breath tickles the tiny bit of skin exposed. I turn my head and find his face close to mine. He kneads my inner thigh, pressing tighter, slipping slightly higher. My legs involuntarily spread an inch, allowing him space to climb, providing him a hint to reach deeper.
That beat between my legs grows to a constant rumble, like a droning drum.
I swallow around an answer to his question.Was I enjoying myself?We shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be touching me like this with his sister on the other side of me. She can’t see anything with the blanket over my shoulder and legs but still . . .
“I’d always wondered what it would be like to be a spectator.”
“You never attended football games?” My voice is weak and labored as he clutches my leg and hitches it over his thigh. My hand is pinned in his lap as he brings my body even closer to him.
He leans into my neck and whispers near my ear again. “Never like this.”
I gaze back at the field. My concentration on the game is completely lost. Zebb continues to massage my thigh, and my hand pinned near the zipper of his jeans feels something firm and growing beneath the snug denim. I squirm the slightest which brushes my fingers against him, and he stills.
Something happens on the field. Zebb comments as if nothing is happening on this bench.
“Come on. Get in there. Defense.”
I lower my lids as his voice ripples outward, but his pinky finger slides upward and swipes at my center. With my leg hitched over his, I’m opened up beneath the sleeping bag.
When I don’t move, his entire hand slips closer to the apex of my legs, and more fingers ripple over my core. Despite the layers of lined leggings and long underwear, heat emits from my center. Wetness dampens the seam.
This is so wrong.
I squeeze at the sudden bulge in his jeans, long and hard, jutting against the space where his leg meets his lower abs.