“Of course.” Cross’s lip hitches into a half-smile, but it’s more arrogant than anything. “My little sis is most definitely safe with me.”
I try to jerk my hand away without moving too hastily beneath the table, but naturally, he holds on tighter.
“Little sis?” I repeat with disgust.
A different waiter, much older than our previous, comes by to lay the check down, but it does nothing to break the rising friction between Cross and me.
“Would you prefer rugrat instead?” he asks, tipping his chin toward me with a hitched eyebrow.
I glare at him, and he continues listing names.
“Pest? Brat? Gremlin?”
“Escuincle,” his mother warns from across the table.
Cross smiles wider. “Good one,Mamá.”
“I was referring to you,” she retorts.
Cross shrugs, and I take the opportunity to pull away again, but it doesn’t work. Cross laughs under his breath, my dad too busy with the check and his mom boxing her meal to pay any attention.
“Let go of my hand,” I seethingly whisper.
“Make me,” Cross says lowly.
I dig my nails into the top of his hand, and his mouth twitches with amusement. Annoyance shoots up from my palm all the way to my shoulder, so I bite down on my cheek and decide to go another route.
I turn slightly, my long hair shielding the side of my face so our parents can’t hear my whisper. “You asked for it.”
Cross’s eyebrows dip for a split second before he smooths his face and engages in another conversation with my father about lacrosse.
Apparently, Cross is the son he never got, considering I didn’t play a single sport growing up. Instead, I was too busy building with blocks and sketching designs for tall, extravagant buildings in my spare time.
With Cross distracted by giving an in-depth explanation of lacrosse and his position, I extract my fingernails from his skin and rub the pad of my finger faintly over the tiny indents. I do this a few more times, all while pressing my thigh a little closer to his, opening my legs just enough for him to feel the warmth from in between.
I allow a quiet, lustful sigh to fall from my lips—something I know only he’ll notice—and gradually guide our pressed hands to his lap instead of mine. Cross glances at me briefly, his eyes curious and wondering before slipping back into the conversation with our parents.
The new waiter comes by to take my father’s credit card, and I pick up the pace, knowing we’ll be leaving soon. Gradually, but with force, I steer Cross’s palm up his leg until it’s close to his zipper.
I scoot forward in my seat to hide my movement of pressing down onto his cock, and I rub it just enough to get his attention. He coughs, his fingers clamping on mine even tighter to stop me.
I told you that you asked for it.
As if it’s magic, a bulge forms behind his zipper, and I smile to myself.
Last night, he fucked me while I was on the phone with my father, and today, he insults me in front of them at dinner. There’s no way he’s getting away with either one of those things.
I’m only half-listening to the conversation at the table, and I barely notice the waiter as he comes back with my father’s card. I’m more focused on the way Cross’s dick grows beneath our combined hands and how his breathing picks up the pace as the seconds pass.
Just when I think he’s going to let go of my fingers, like I asked him to several minutes ago, he joins in on my torture and angles the heel of his palm so it’s pressing down even harder.
Somehow, my little payback stunt turned into me squirming in my seat too.
How didthathappen?
“I think we’re good to go,” Sofia announces, smiling at both Cross and me.
“Great!” I say, a little too eagerly.
