Page 23 of Dump Tackle My Heart
“Why are you squirming over there?” he rumbles, voice low and smooth, like warm honey over gravel. “You restless, Sweetheart?”
God. That accent. That pet name. It should be illegal.
“I’m fine,” I snap.
But I’m not.
I’m one hoodie-flap away from a full mental breakdown.
“Yeah, you are,” he says, and I can hear him—his hand sliding down his skin.
Oh my fuck. Is he—Gulp.
Is he about to touch himself?
I make a decision.
A stupid, reckless, hormone-driven decision.
But whatever because I have to do something.
I stand up, heart hammering in my chest like it’s trying to warn me.
Tank’s dark eyes flick toward me, and I try to ignore the fact that one fist is gripping his cock as he stares, but I look—how could I not?
I lookhard.
And I swallow.
Then, that’s when I do it.
Slowly. Deliberately. Tauntingly.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my sweatpants, and I slide them down my legs.
He sits up so fast I almost laugh.
His biceps flex.
His jaw ticks.
“What are you doing?” he growls, voice rougher now.
I shrug like this isn’t a calculated act of war.
“Just getting comfy. We’re both adults. And it is warm in here.”
My tone is casual. My pulse is not.
And then, with full dramatic flair, I reach for the hem of my hoodie.
His eyes widen.
“You wouldn’t,” he breathes.
Oh, I would.
I lift it up and over my head, revealing the lacy tank I forgot I packed and my very tiny lacy boyshorts underneath.
