Page 118 of Unbreakable
His eyes danced. “You’re welcome, baby.”
He held my hand in his lap and I got to feel one of my favorite . . . textures? The feeling of his thick, muscular thighs under suit fabric enraptured me from the beginning. I remember all the times he had me in his car after games, the sinew under a fine blend of materials rising to my hands. And I’m pretty sure he knew that made me nuts.
As the lights went down for the first act and the orchestral overture started, he scooted his chair to be right next to mine. My dress had a slit in it, and he slowly worked his fingers to touch my bare skin, gently tickling the inside of my knee. By the time Bob and Betty were counting their blessings instead of sheep, my breasts were heaving from his teasing.
And he hadn’t even gotten anywhere close to my pussy. Just soft caresses, the pads of his fingers on my skin. During some dialogue before the final song in Act I, Dylan leaned into my ear.
“During this intermission, you’re going to go in the ladies’ room and take off your panties. When you come out of the bathroom, I want you to slide them in my pocket.”
My eyes bugged out at him in the low light, and he pretended to be watching the show. He casually turned to me and lifted one of those very sexy dark brows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“Good girl,” he mouthed with a squeeze to my knee.
Holy Christ. I had butterflies in my stomach, goosebumps up my arms, and hair standing up on the back of my neck. How could he still do this to me? We’d been together eight years, and I was still getting completely hot and bothered by my husband. We must have been doing something right.
So when the curtain dropped, Dylan stood and held out a hand to help me stand. Wobbling on my tall heels, I lifted my skirt so I didn’t step on it.
“Wait,” he said before I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. “Show me the heels again.”
“Dylan Sorrento, if you don’t watch yourself, I’m going to think you’re a foot guy.” With a smirk, I extended my leg from the slit of the dress.
Dylan bit his bottom lip as his gaze combed over me. “I’m the luckiest asshole on the planet.”
“So you admit, you are an asshole,” I hummed, walking ahead of him. As I reached the door of the box, he palmed my ass.
“You bet I am.”
Dylan escorted me to the ladies’ room, and on the way, a group of women stopped us. “Dylan Sorrento?”
He put on his for-the-fans grin. “Yep!”
“Do you mind if we get a picture?”
He ogled me with drowsy eyes. “Only if you get my amazing wife in it.”
“Dylan,” I chided him. “I’ll take the picture.”
“No, no, J. You belong in it,” he said, turning to the women. “Have you seen this gorgeous dress?”
“Dylan—” I hissed.
“What? I just want to show you off,” he said, leaning closer to me as the women asked a passer-by to take the picture.
So those women got a photo of themselves, my husband, and me with my husband’s hand suspiciously close to my breast.
“Enjoy the show,” he said as we left them.
“You are such a fucking schmooze,” I said as we reached the place where we had to part to go in the bathroom.
“No,” he said, pulling me close. “I’m just obsessed with you, and I want everyone to know you’re mine.”
Butterflies, goosebumps, raised hairs. Again.
Dammit, Dylan.
I smiled to myself as I went in a bathroom stall, obeying his request to remove my panties. I stuffed them into my tiny purse, hoping nothing hung out.
