Dinner that night was almost unbearable. Mom was talking about some charity event Mark had promised they’d go to, her voice too bright, too sweet. Across the table, Cole sat in his chair like nothing was wrong, hair damp from a shower, clean T-shirt stretched across his chest. No one else would know what we’d done, but my body remembered. My thighs pressed together, sticky and sore, and every time he looked at me, I flushed.
Under the table, his bare foot slid against my calf. I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. He didn’t look up, just kept eating like he hadn’t just started stroking my leg with slow, lazy intent.
I tried to focus on Mom’s voice. Failed. His toes slid higher, grazing my knee, then pressing the inside of my thigh. I shifted, but he only smirked, finally meeting my eyes. He
