Wild

I turned back to the movie, uncomfortable with these thoughts and realizing I hadn’t been that different from those girls in the beginning either. I hadn’t seen beyond his good looks and reputation. “You want a drink? Snack?”

“I could eat.”

I went in the kitchen and popped some popcorn. Tucking a couple cans of soda under my arm, I returned with a big bowl.

We sat back on the couch and continued to watch the movie, munching on popcorn and chatting, covering a wide range of subjects. From why husbands always cheat with the secretary to why girls loved guys with British accents.

“It doesn’t matter,” I insisted.

“Oh. Come on. You can’t tell me that if I opened my mouth and started talking like Prince Harry girls wouldn’t drop—”

“You’re not a proper test case. Girls drop their panties now when you open your mouth,” I accused.

“Not every girl,” he shot back, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me.

“Oh!” I blew out an outraged breath and tossed a handful of popcorn in his face.

Chuckling, he grabbed a handful and hurled the stuff back at me. Buttery popcorn pelted me and my laugh twisted into a loud, indelicate pig snort.

At the sound, I clapped and hand over my mouth and nose.

“Oh, that’s nice.” He threw back his head, the tendons in his throat working as a deep belly laugh rumbled up from him.

I plucked a piece from my hair and flicked it at him.

His hand shot out and walked along my ribs. “C’mon. Do you always snort when you laugh. Let’s hear that again.”

I looked down at his hand and back at his face, arching an eyebrow. “Sorry. I’m not ticklish.”

“What?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Everyone is ticklish.”

“Nope. Not me. I’m an anomaly. It’s a freak genetic trait. My mother isn’t ticklish either.”

“I bet you are,” he insisted, looking knowing and smug. And sexy as hell.

I shrugged and shook my head. “Nope.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Well, let’s see then.”

I held out my arms, inviting him to tickle me again. “Go ahead. I won’t laugh.”

He stroked his chin, considering me for a moment like he was trying to decide his strategy.

“Come on,” I taunted.

“What do I get if I make you laugh?”

“You can sleep in the bed.” His eyes darkened and a flock of butterflies took off in my belly. I quickly added, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Well, that would be kind of dick of me.”

“Chicken.”

“Ohh.” He shook his head. “It’s on. Prepare to laugh.”

His fingers started at my ribs again and then drifted under my arms. Nothing. Well, nothing except that flock of butterflies in my belly got so seriously out of hand that I suddenly thought I might puke.

His wide eyes fixed on me with awe. “You’re not human.”

A burst of laughter escaped me and I held up a finger. “That didn’t count.”

He moved his head side to side as if deciding. “Debatable, but okay.” His fingers hovered clawlike over me.

I clenched my teeth, waiting for his touch again.

“I’ve got a new tactic.” He gripped the hem of my shirt and tugged it up.

I squeaked and grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“C’mon. Don’t be a prude. I can’t really tickle you properly through your shirt. That’s an unfair advantage for you.”

“You sure you’re not trying to get me naked?”

It was his turn to look offended. “I don’t resort to manipulation to get girls naked.”

Sighing, I released my death grip on his hand. “Fine. It still won’t work though. You’ll see.”

He pushed my shirt up, stopping just below my bra. He stared at my bare stomach for a moment, holding one finger aloft.

“Go on,” I said tightly.

He flicked me an annoyed glance. “Patience. I’m trying a different approach.”

That finger landed in the center of my stomach, feather soft. He dragged the blunt-nailed tip down, then up and around. His other fingers joined in. So slow and barely there that a chill ran down my spine. My breathing grew harsh, a hoarse rasp, and I squeezed my thighs together against a familiar ache. This was so not a good idea.

He looked up at me from hooded eyes, braced over me like some sort of hungry beast. At least that’s how I felt. Like someone about to be devoured.

“Nothing?”

I shook my head, afraid to speak.

He clucked his tongue. “That’s too bad. I guess I lose.”

A ragged breath shuddered past my lips. My right hand dug into the side of the futon like I was hanging on for dear life. Only he didn’t move away. No. His fingers continued to work a lazy pattern over my quivering skin.

I looked from his face to his hand, strong and tan, so much darker against the peaches hue of my skin.

He traced a fingertip over my belly, his expression intent and serious. Like he was doing important work.

I wasn’t even close to giggling. That was the furthest possibility. Moaning would be more probable. Begging him to keep touching? Check. Pleading with him to move his hand lower? Double check.

He bent his head and fixed his gaze on the flesh above my navel, moving his finger in a deliberate, precise manner.

My stomach muscles contracted and quivered. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Writing my name.”

And then I felt the letters there. His name written on my skin. L-O-G-A-N. As though he’d just marked me. Branded me for life. Yeah. Fitting, I supposed. That’s how I felt right now.

Poised above me, he relaxed his hand, lowering it to my stomach, splaying each finger wide against me. He lifted his gaze to my face, his stare deep and penetrating, the pupils hardly discernible against the dark blue of his eyes.

A muscle feathered in his cheek and I realized he was holding himself in check. Restraining himself above me. One word. One move and we would pick up right where we left off outside the kink club. He’d told me it was on me. All I had to do was say the word if I wanted this to happen between us. I just needed to open my mouth . . .

“I have to get up early,” I blurted.

He hesitated and then removed his hand. Settling back on the futon, he was relaxed and at ease again. “Then we better go to bed.”