Page 17 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Dex

“So I’ve been giving this some thought ... I think we should actually date.”

I stare at myself in the mirror of the movie-theater bathroom, practicing the lines I’ve been thinking about since my call with Trent, a niggling guilt rooting itself in my belly.

“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” I tell myself out loud as I wash my hands. “You like her. She likes you. It’s only dating, you’re not proposing.” What can it hurt to take her out a few times?

And if we get photographed and a news outlet picks it up ...

All the better.

“Why are you being such a wuss about this?” I say, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser and drying my hands. “Go out there and—”

“Dude. Are you talking to yourself?”

A kid of about nine years old is staring at me, having just rounded the corner from the bathroom stalls.

“Sorry. I thought I was alone.”

He ignores me and comes to the sink to wash his hands too.

“What are you seeing?” I ask him, forgetting all about stranger danger and not talking to random children because it might terrify them, but in my defense, he started the conversation.

He ignores me.

I give him props and ignore him, too, pushing through the bathroom door and back into the theater lobby, where Margot is waiting for me, popcorn and snacks in hand.

I promised her an entire day of fun to make up for the water incident in her kitchen, and I plan to deliver. I even let her pick the movie! Bought her whatever snacks she wanted and a beer too.

She has a blanket folded over one arm because, according to her, she always gets cold when she’s in the theater and always has one in the back of her car.

“Ready?”

She nods happily, a pep in her step. “I’ve been dying to see this movie.”

I haven’t.

I don’t love chick flicks, but this one is a mash-up of action, comedy, and romance—so with any luck, we’ll both enjoy it. Usually I’m a fan of sci-fi or movies based on comic books, or even horror, depending on the mood.

Margot and I score seats near the back, in the middle, surrounded by a sea of empty seats.

Perfect.

As the previews for new movies begin, Margot nudges me and offers me the popcorn, her hand already firmly planted inside the big bucket of kernels.

I shake my head, not hungry for it yet.

“I only eat once the movie has started,” I whisper, leaning closer.

She stuffs a handful into her mouth.

“I want to see this,” she tells me, referring to the preview of a movie releasing in winter, eyes locked on the screen. “Looks so good.”

A few minutes later she’s pointing at the action unfolding in front of us. “Why do they make so many action movies? Not everyone likes watching this crap. Pass.”

Then, “Oh!” She nudges me. “I love Kat Kittson! She’s making another rom-com!”

I have no idea who Kat Kittson is, but apparently Margot loves her.

She continues analyzing movie trailers, remarking that it’s one of her favorite things about coming to the cinema, enthusiastically giving them a thumbs-up or thumbs-down—until the opening credits roll for the movie we’re here to see.

The lights dim.

I turn, studying her profile—the outline of her nose. Chin. The silhouette of her hair.

She’s so focused and intent, already laughing at one of the funny one-liners. I know her eyes are crinkling at the corners in the adorable way they do, her dimple on full display, and now my focus isn’t on the film .

What would she do if she knew about my conversation with Trent? I was so close to spilling the beans today when we were golfing but lost the courage. I honestly don’t want her to think I’m a piece of shit, but I also want to be direct with her. What better time to start?

I mean, look at us.

Friends.

But there’s no fucking way she wants to keep it like that.

She originally swiped on me because she wanted to date me, yeah?

Or to bust me because she thought I was a catfish, but that’s a minor detail.

She may pretend we’re not attracted to each other and that she wants to keep me at arm’s length, but she can’t fool me.

I see the way she blushes when she catches me looking at her, and I felt her breathing get heavier when she wrapped her arms around me at Glam Golf USA. Not to brag, but I’ve met enough women to know when they’re hot and bothered, and Margot was hot.

And bothered.

Is it my imagination, or does Margot lean in a little closer each time she offers me a snack?

I glance at her again, drinking in the sight as she watches the screen, as if she were a teenager, and my mind wanders. I made out in a movie theater once when I was a teen, always horny, always putting the moves on people first.

Speaking of horny . . .

Why is the blanket across her lap drawing my eyes to it? Why do I want to slide my hand beneath it and run my palm along her inner thigh? The blanket feels like a barrier and an invitation all at once.

Wonder what she’d do if ...

Should I, you know, put my hand under it?

Regardless of our relationship status, what better way to springboard to the next level than with a little foreplay.

Am I right or am I right?

Talk is cheap; fooling around is forever.

I yawn.

Reach across the back of her seat, stretching as if I were exhausted, and yawn again—the way they do it in the movies. Lay my hand on the back of her chair, touching her hair before letting my hand slide to her shoulders, real cool and nonchalant like .

She looks over at me, brows raised. “Wow. That’s your move?”

Yes, that is my move. Not the best move, but a move nonetheless ...

“Why do you have to call me out like this?” I laugh. “Pretend we’re on a date.”

Definitely don’t feel as smooth as I thought I was.

“A date?” She shivers. “If you say so.”

Every time Margot laughs at a clever line from the characters on screen—or pretends to fan herself at the sight of the hunky male lead, with his handsome face and his great hair—I feel a flutter of excitement.

She’s so fucking cute. I can’t wait to get my hands on her ...

I want to kiss her again.

That short-lived and interrupted kiss in her kitchen was too quick to register in my brain as memorable, and I wouldn’t mind trying it again to see if sparks fly this time. It’s been fucking with my mind ever since.

She shifts in her big red leather chair, the warmth of her leg pressing against mine. Impossible to ignore.

I’m not into this movie.

Barely paying attention, which we all knew was going to happen, too busy am I as I contemplate how best to make my next move.

With deliberate slowness, I slide my hand under the blanket, feeling the soft fabric of her leggings glide against the tips of my fingers and palm. Brush them over her knee, letting it rest there.

Her mouth curves into a smile.

I lean over, kissing her neck. Jawline. The spot below her ear.

“Are you trying to kiss me?”

“Do you want me to?”

She nods, setting the popcorn in the seat next to her.

My palm is still on her thigh when our mouths meet, bodies now turned to face one another, the cup holder that had once separated us now pushed out of the way.

Our tongues dance, the sweet taste of soda and the salt from her popcorn—buttery delicious—flirt with my senses as my fingers inch toward the center of her thighs. Light. Teasing.

She moans against my mouth, wiggling in her seat.

Encouraged by her excitement, I continue, my fingertips trailing along her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin layer of fabric.

Her lips curve into a small wicked smile. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

She’s breathless.

I grin, trailing kisses along her jaw. “You love it.”

We both do.

How often do we get to feel like ...

We’re young again?

Not that we’re not young. Shit, I barely just turned twenty-five.

Her hand moves to my forearm, fingers curling around my wrist—but instead of pushing me away, the little minx guides me higher. The silent encouragement sends a thrill through me, and I wonder if being pleasured in public is something she’s done before.

I let my hand slide farther up her thigh, the intimacy of the moment electrifying.

The movie plays on, the romantic scene unfolding in the background barely a blip on our radar, our attention on each other. At least, mine is on her since I’m the one doing all the touching ...

Margot’s breathing grows heavier, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that tells me she’s getting turned on.

“How’s this?” I whisper, hand teasing.

She nods, biting down on her lower lip from the anticipation. “Perfect.”

I continue my slow, tantalizing caresses—at least, that’s the vibe I’m going for—feeling the tension and desire building between us. Her soft sighs and tiny moans are sweeter than the sound of my chef announcing that dinner is being served, and that’s saying a lot because I fucking love to eat.

Seriously love it.

My hand moves with more confidence now, fingers tracing patterns on her thigh, venturing closer to her most sensitive spots, only holding back to make her squirm.

“You’re going to drive me crazy,” she murmurs just loud enough for me to hear, her voice a mix of frustration and pleasure. Whining. Pouting.

I chuckle, savoring the power and intimacy of the moment, but what she has yet to realize is that she holds all the power. All of it.

“That’s the idea.”

My fingers reach the apex of her thighs.

Once again, she shivers.

I take pleasure in knowing she feels pleasure, ’cause why the hell else would she be shivering? I bet her thighs would quake if I was kneeling between her legs ... but that’s a pipe dream to save for another day. Or another outing.

Ha.

Like a good girl—or a bad girl, depending on how you look at it—Margot parts her legs to grant me better access, breath now coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Naughty, naughty . . .

The vixen likes it.

And so, beneath the delicate fabric my fingers go and find her wet and ready. So wet. So ready.

Even though it’s been ages since I’ve gotten anyone off like this—usually we’re in a bed or at least somewhere private.

Oh—and naked. I begin to move my fingers in languid, deliberate strokes, feeling her body respond to my touch.

Margot’s hand covers mine under the blanket, her grip tightening with each passing moment.

My fingers travel with practiced ease, finding a rhythm that makes her breath catch and her body tremble beneath the lap blanket.

I am driving her wild.

Margot leans her head back against the leather theater seat, eyes fluttering closed as I work my magic, getting her off like a goddamn boss, the hands I get paid so much money for doing double duty.

I am a triple threat.

Football, good looks, and foreplay. Bam!

Margot’s quiet moans are almost drowned out by the sounds of the film, but I know she’s making them—I can tell by her parted lips and half-closed eyelids. It’s an expression that’s driving me wild too.

I lean in, pressing a kiss to her neck, and take pleasure when I feel the pulse racing beneath my lips.

“This is so fucking hot,” I whisper, my voice rough with desire.

God I wish we could fuck.

Or at least I wish I could properly go down on her, and I doubt she’d want to do it in the back of my car, though it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask.

“Don’t stop,” she begs.

Up on the giant cinema screen there’s an explosion.

It’s timed perfectly with Margot’s, her body tense, hand still covering mine, not wanting me to stop. Breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, and holy shit, who knew it would be this easy to make her come?

She shudders.

Obviously she does, because like I said, I’m so fucking good at this. The quiet cry escaping her lips sounds like a five-star review that I want to rave about online.

I did this.

I made her come at the movies.

In public.

In an awkward position.

With only one hand.

Fuck. Yeah.

We sit for a moment, pretending to watch the movie while her body finishes racking with spasms, the blanket covering her lap and covering up our shared secret.

I withdraw my hand, triumph filling my gut as Margot turns to look at me, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. Desire.

“Well,” she says at long last. “That was interesting.”

Interesting?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Her head gives a tentative shake. “It’s ... it means we probably have to have a conversation.”

A conversation?

Shit. About what?

That cannot be good . . .