He shifts in his seat again and I feel his shoe tap into mine. I look up and find him glancing off somewhere in the parking lot, pressing his lips together.
I wonder if this night is as hard for him as it is for me. Do I have Brant all wrong? Sometimes he acts like a self-proclaimed gift to all of womankind. And sometimes he reminds me of this timid boy I knew long ago who was so scared to ask to sit with anyone at lunch that he’d just take his tray to the corner of the room and eat by the trashcan. It was a girl in a green dress who might or might not have joined him one unassuming Tuesday in October and gave him reason to smile for the first time all school year. We might have also been laughed at by a neighboring table and then pelted with banana peels.
Also, I’m pretty sure I wore more than just that green dress when I was a kid, seriously.
“It’s a nice night,” Brant murmurs lazily, still gazing off.
Then, I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s his nervousness. Maybe it’s mine. Maybe it’s the flirty employees and an uncharacteristic bolt of jealousy that cuts through me. But suddenly, I let my foot slip out of my shoe, then gently and slowly run just the tip up the inside of his smooth, jeaned leg.
Though Brant continues to stare off, I can tell by the flicker in his eyes that my little action does not go unnoticed. I see him trying to fight away a smirk on his face, pretending not to feel it.
I let my toe run even higher, reaching his inner thigh.
He purses his lips innocently, still gazing off as if totally oblivious … except he seems to open his legs a bit more.
My foot welcomes the invitation.
Soon, my foot’s ascended so high, I can visibly see his breathing change by the rise and fall of his chest, which grows more dramatically by the second.
Then he snaps his eyes to me and grips my foot under the table in one motion.
I gasp, surprised.
Now it’s Brant wearing that signature cocky grin of his.
“Foot massage?” he murmurs quietly.
I narrow my eyes.
Then, he pulls my foot right to the destination I may or may not have been crawling towards all along. Upon pulling my foot into his crotch, Brant bites his lip into half a scowl and moans lightly.
Yes, he’s hard as a rock.
Then he brings his other hand down and begins to massage my foot, his eyes never leaving mine as he mashes his thumbs in all the right places. I can’t even begin to describe what his strong hands do to me. I fight an urge to squeeze shut my thighs, then fight another urge to open them wide and wrap Brant in them. The whole table seems to be magically growing smaller. If I close my eyes, I could imagine we were somehow sharing the same chair.
“Feel good?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I moan slowly.
“Is this winning me some points?” he asks. “I’m trying to redeem enough to get you in my bed.”
I flip open my eyes, glaring at him. Of course I find him grinning obnoxiously.
To that, I ignore his massage and, instead, gently push my foot even further into his hardened crotch. Brant loses all trace of his cockiness, his eyes going wide and his mouth gaping. I feel his cock flex under my foot. Yeah, I have his manhood at my heel now; I basically own him.
“Earn a few points by letting go of my foot,” I tell him politely.
“But you’re—”
“Or not?” I taunt him.
He lets go at once, despite my foot being pressed firmly against his junk. He looks like a man I’m about to arrest, his face showing surprise and his hands hovering tentatively in the air.
I suppress a smile of amusement, then work my foot deeper, giving him a “foot massage” of my own.
He shuts his eyes and clamps his fingers to the edges of the table. A deep groan of approval escapes his throat. I grin, encouraged by his reaction, and continue to use my foot to help out with his not-so-little “situation” down there.
Then he brings a fist to his mouth and bites it. “You’re making this impossible,” he says through his clenched teeth, muffled.
“Making … what … impossible?” I ask innocently.
“Making it impossible for me to—” I push deeper into his crotch, which seems to push a moan out of his lips. “For me to behave myself.”
“We’re behaving,” I assure him.
Then his eyes meet mine, and boy do they smolder. I’ve never seen blue eyes smolder the way his do in this moment, burning me with their daring, sexualized fury. His eyes have that “I’m gonna get you back” look to them. I suppose that’s the sort of look one earns when one so brazenly plays with fire.
The very next moment, a server—who is a boy with cherry cheeks and bleached blond hair—appears with our orders, announcing them as he sets each plate in front of us.