Page 126 of Pucking Matt
“Don’t let the door shut!” he says, catching it with his arm over my head. He licks his lips, and I don’t budge as I cross my arms. I can’t believe he specifically called out the type of bra I had on. Was he touching it? Did he smell it? Did he hold it against his own chest?
He leans down and says, “I didn’t look at your bra without you knowing.”
“What?” I scoff.
“Yeah.” His jaw clenches as I look at his bruised cut. It’s starting to develop and change colors. “I could see it through your shirt earlier.”
I playfully nudge his chest. He doesn’t move. I walk back into the room and scoff. “You are a perv.”
“That doesn’t make me a perv. It makes me observant.”
I roll my eyes as he looks down at the hoodie I’m wearing. I should have worn something underneath this because now that my nipples are grazing the material, I feel like this is all a mistake.
“Dryer should take an hour,” he says.
“An hour is too long,” I scoff, very annoyed.
“I can check it in thirty.”
I walk to my target bag. “Be a good boyfriend and paint my nails.”
He walks over slowly with a neutral expression. I hold out the nail polish with the best sassy attitude I can muster, keeping my eyes on his. He takes the nail polish and looks me deep in my eyes. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to–”
“What?” I flick a brow at him. I hold out my fingers.
“I’ll spank you,” he mutters, and it’s so forced that I almost laugh.
I step closer to him. “Is that your way of dirty talk?”
He wiggles the nail polish in my face and smiles. “I’ll paint your nails.”
I sit on the bed and scoot over to make room for him. He twists the cap open as I hold out my hands. He has no idea what he’s doing because he swipes a gob of nail polish on my pointer fingernail and makes a mess.
I inhale. “This is bad.”
He laughs, inserts the brush back into the container, and does the next fingernail horribly.
“Have you never used a paintbrush before?” I ask, watching as he attempts a third nail and fails. The nail polish is pooling into my cuticles.
“Yeah, I’m Picasso,” he says, concentrating hard on my pinky nail.
“Is this your first time?” I joke, gasping. “Aw.”
“You’re fixing this, right?” he asks in deep concentration. He’s putting way too much on my thumb now.
“No, I’m rocking it,” I say, pulling my hand back and blowing on my nails. “If anyone asks, I get to say that my hockey player boyfriend did my nails.”
I hold out my left hand for him. He holds it this time, wiping excessive polish off the brush, and swipes my fingernail in one go.
“There,” he says proud of himself. “I did it.”
“Hurry and do these before they dry,” I say, giving him back my right hand.
He leans down, takes my hand, and focuses on removing all the extra polish on my nails.
“Is it supposed to do that?” he asks.
The top was dry, so under the blob is wet, and it scraped off. Now I have a horrible manicure.
