But he didn’t release my hand.
When I was a little kid, my father always had this great trick whenever I had to get a shot at the doctor’s office. He’d make me grasp his hand as the sadistic nurse was jabbing my skin with her medieval torture device, saying, “Just squeeze my hand for as bad as it hurts.” The psychology of the ritual always worked. Like, I’d be able to lessen any pain I was feeling from the needle by releasing it right into my father’s waiting hand. It always took the edge off, thinking he was taking a portion of the hurt for me.
That’s kinda what Trip was doing with me right then, trying to transfer his nervousness into my palm, letting me take some of it away for him, and I was glad to do it. Every time he spoke onscreen, he gripped my hand a little tighter, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities. But still, I took it all. Took everything he had to give me. I took it like a champ.
The longer I held his hand, the more I noticed the pressure against it slowly decreasing. Before long, we were simply sitting there in the dark, holding hands. I didn’t know if we were crossing over some line of impropriety, because even though hand-holding never counted as cheating in the history of unfaithful couples, my nerve endings would have said otherwise. I became aware of the little kneading motion his thumb was making against the pad of my palm; the deliberate, insistent pressure he was radiating into my skin, and I started to get hot. Not just turned on—I mean, yeah, sure, there was that, obviously—but actually temperature raising, sweaty brow hot.
“Trip. Cut it out.”
He was doing that Trip Thing, that effortless seduction that he’d always been capable of. Just to torture me further, he turned his peepers up to eleven, looked right into my eyes, and asked faux-innocently, “What?” A smirk accompanied his face to slither out the next response. “Two old pals can’t indulge in a little innocent hand-holding?”
“There is nothing ‘innocent’ about this,” I whispered back through my teeth.
Maybe he’d gotten used to living in a place where words like fiancée and engaged held no meaning. But I didn’t live in that city. Hell, I didn’t live on that planet.
His voice dropped to a low, gravelly whisper, “Layla. We’re not doing anything bad.” He shifted his body more toward mine as his head tipped closer to my face and added, “But of course, bad can be arranged.”
He punctuated his statement with a raised eyebrow and I felt that familiar electric charge travel all the way through my entire nervous system. If Con-Ed could have bottled whatever this guy was packing, Giuliani could’ve kept the whole city off the grid indefintely.
A current was running through me at his nearness, his smoldering eyes, his thumb still rubbing seductively against my palm.
He was so bad. I was bad… This was very, very bad.
Chapter 16
STARDOM
He gave a chuckle and slunk back to his side of the armrest, which I had begun to think of as Switzerland. Neutral zone. Safe territory. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine. You gotta hold the frame.
I shook myself out of the stupor and grabbed my soda, taking a huge pull from the straw, trying to cool down. And then I took another. And another.
And then, the next thing I knew, Trip was leaning over toward me again. I watched in stunned silence as his slacked lips parted, caught a glimpse of his tongue poised at the entrance to his delectable mouth… eyes fixed on the movie… Shit. He wanted a drink.
Jesus, just ask next time.
I placed the straw within his range, and with his eyes never leaving the screen, I watched as he wrapped his perfect mouth around it and took a sip. I may have let my knuckle brush lightly against his bottom lip, but I regret nothing. I was spinning from the feel of his thumb still massaging my palm, and my brain was not my own at that moment.
And yet, it never occurred to me to let go of his hand.
I put the cup back into its holster before I could lose my grip and send it spilling down the length of the theater. I expelled a shakier-than-I-would-have-liked sigh and then noticed Trip’s mouth curling up into a smirk.
He knew. That sonofabitch knew exactly the effect he was having on me, exactly the reaction he was provoking from my shattered insides. Was he thinking about the kiss we’d shared the other day? Yes, of course he was. I knew I was incapable of thinking about little else. The way his lips felt against mine, the pure, unadulterated lust he was able to provoke in me. The way I’d melted willingly into his strong arms, succumbing to the spell he’d so easily put me under.
Just to throw some salt in my wounds, he shifted in his seat in a way that left no doubt about his discomfort. But so what. If he was dealing with a case of blue balls, it was his own damned fault. He started this.