Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) by Eden Connor

only illumination. Standing by the sofa, she let him take the mug from her hand. Every time he touched her, her nervous system went haywire. He set the cup on the huge coffee table, beside a bowl piled high with chunks of chicken, carrots, and flaky crust. His bowl and a second cup sat at the other end. Her heart lurched when he turned to face her. His spicy, masculine scent obliterated the smell of burning wood. Her folds began to swell. Is this normal? Drew’s cologne never made her feel aroused.
    “Here,”—he flopped down on the couch and patted his thigh—“stretch your legs across my lap. Let me get those little feet thawed out while we eat.” He divested her of her shoes while she picked up her fork. “Good god, what size shoe do you wear?” He turned her sneaker in his hand.
    She rolled her eyes. “On a good day, I wear a ladies’ five. On a bad day, I have to go to the kid’s department and buy a junior’s four.” His laughter made her huff. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a decent pair of shoes.”
    “I bet I do. I wear a fourteen.”
    His fingers swept across her sole, chasing the icy pins and needles from one foot, while Grams’ delicious casserole melted on her tongue. I could get used to this. The view was incredible. He scarfed the contents of his bowl down before she’d taken four bites. Next, he shed his flannel shirt and she poked herself in the chin with her spoon. His thermal undershirt contrasted nicely with his olive skin. The unbleached knit strained across his muscular chest. Shadows accented the planes of his face. The fire accented the rich colors of the tattooed sleeve encasing his left arm.
    “What made you decide to be a teacher?” His inquiry surprised her. He lifted her foot. She moaned when his strong thumb drove into her arch. The penetrating motion felt so good, she couldn’t stop her hips from rising off the couch. She clutched her bowl. He tugged off her sock, laughing at the cartoon penguins decorating her knee-highs.
    For the first time in her life, Amy wished she had a pedicure.
    She managed to tick off the most important reasons, despite the pleasure clouding her brain. “I like children—when they belong to someone else—and I get summers off.”
    He removed her other sock. “I’m into OPK myself.” He grinned and explained, “Other people’s kids.” The stroke of his thumb across her bare skin made her folds swell and ache. She managed to take a few bites before he asked, “What will you do with those summers?”
    His strong hands felt magical. He had the blood flowing to her feet again. The rest seemed to be pooling around her clit. “Visit every major league ball park. Go to Vegas and bet on a sporting event, just to say I did. Start classes toward my Master’s degree. Eventually, I want to be a school principal.” The insistent throb in her channel made thinking hard, much less eating.
    “A principal?” He laughed again. “You’re mighty small to be a principal. Most fourth graders are bigger. And they have bigger feet.”
    Giggling when he raked his nails across her instep, she showed him how nice and tall her middle finger could be. “That’s why I’ll have scary assistant principals about your size. Duh.”
    “And this charity thing you want to talk to Phil about? What’s that?”
    “Wheelchair basketball.”
    Her eyes had adjusted to the low light. His brows rose and his eyes grew wide. “They play basketball in wheelchairs?”
    “They do. Picture a cross between basketball and demolition derby. They’re hard-core players, always banging those chairs together. They always need to pay for insurance, new uniforms, that kind of thing.”
    “So, what’re you asking Phil to do?”
    “I want to hold exhibition games one weekend at the mall. I want him to donate the space and advertise the event.”
    Why couldn’t she say that earlier? At least her tongue seemed to work now. He wouldn’t care about her other reason, she