Page 135 of Ignition

He cocked a brow at me, eyes shimmering with delight, and for once, I didn’t have it in me to bite his head off.

“Not yet,” Pri grumbled darkly from beside me, drawing chuckles out of us and dispersing the tension.

It kicked up again with a vengeance as he gestured with his chin to the ball return and my stomach did a little flip.

I shuffled towards him, and he frowned, gaze ducking to my feet.

“What?”

“Are those loose?”

How—

“Y-yeah. They didn’t have a four and a half.”

I shrugged, trying to mask my stuttering breaths.

“Come on, let’s get you proper shoes.”

His arm hooked over my shoulders, guiding me and kicking up shivers down my spine as his scent curled around me. Sandalwood, pine, and something spicy brought back last night: the dance floor, his hands on my waist, the world going quiet as he leaned in…

For an earth-shattering moment, I wanted to drag him closer by the hair and kiss him.

A split-second later, his expression turned entirely too-smug, and the urge to smack him returned with a vengeance as the guy with thick-rimmed glasses at the counter slid me what he swore on his life equalled a four and a half.

Before I could grab them, he did, and knelt in front of me.

“What are you—” I gasped, pulse kicking up wildly in my veins.

His deft fingers were undoing my laces, along with the seams to my composure.

He looked up at me, smirking, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Just… helping you out,” he drawled, voice low and husky, so at odds with the supposed casualness of the gesture.

His hands grazed my ankles as he pulled my shoes off, thumbs tracing the delicate bone for a moment longer than was appropriate.

Heat licked down my spine and my hand planted on the wooden counter, gripping it for balance as he repeated the movement with my other foot—taking his sweet ass time, not minding I wasn’t breathing.

He guided my foot into the other pair, palms grazing my arch and cradling the heel, and I could barely make out whether it was my size or not with the flutters kicking up along my bones. Then he adjusted the inseam, peering up at me with a glimmer in his eye as he started on the laces.

My throat bobbed on a slow swallow as I tugged at my collar, skin two sizes too small.

The hum of other players around us dimmed, until only the shoelaces hissing through the eyelets and the frantic drum of my pulse remained.

“Does this feel good? Or is it too tight?” he murmured, hooking his gaze with mine and snuffing out my breath.

What?

Oh, the laces.

“Yeah,” I rasped back, swallowing hard.

The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smirk.

I cleared my throat. “I-I d-don’t need your help!”

My voice was all breathy and wrong, and god, I hated the sound of it. Almost as much as I hated the ease with which he straightened up, fingers grazing my calves before whispering upwards, brushing over my thighs, skimming my hips, only to settle on my waist.