Page 8 of Hating On Riot
“Are you sure about that? You might feel less conflicted.”
“I’m not conflicted,” I growl.
“I beg to differ.”
“For goodness’ sake, Riot, stop begging to differ. I refuse to speak to you about my private life.”
He opens his mouth.
I stick out my hand. “Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. My personal life is none of your business.”
“Your life is always my business, Tiptoe.”
Oh, hell no. He did not call me that dumb nickname from our childhood.
“You did not,” I accuse.
“Did not what, Tiptoe?” He looks me up and down.
I groan. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Call you Tiptoe? Yeah. Yeah, I did. What are you going to do about it? Or should I make the first move? Except this time, there’ll be an adult twist to our game.”
“Adult twist?” I squeak. What am I? A teenage girl crushing on her crush again?
His gaze roves from my face to my chest and the place between my legs. Suddenly, my T-shirt and skinny jeans feel too tight, accentuating the curves I do have, from my breasts to my hips to my thighs. I resist the urge to shield my body from his open perusal with my arms.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say.
“Is that a challenge?”
“No.”
“Are you scared?”
“Of course not. But don’t you think we’re beyond silly children’s games?”
“Other kids didn’t play the games we did, Arie.” He stares at my mouth. “Your brothers aren’t here. Neither is Cooper. It’s just you and me.”
“Practice?”
“Being late to one isn’t anything new. So what if Coach rips me a new asshole? I’m willing to take an ass-chewing for the chance to see you move. Close your eyes, baby.”
Baby. Oh, God, I love it when he calls me that. And the way he says it is smooth, like the first time I had a shot of Fireball whiskey, before it burned my throat and settled in my belly, warming me.
I close my eyes.
“Socks off, Arie.”
“Riot.” I feel the instant he moves closer. I swallow my nervousness as he brushes his knuckle over my bottom lip.
“Socks. Or else I’ll take them off myself.”
“This game—”
“Not this, but our game, Tiptoe.”
“That’s such a dumb nickname.”
