“Curse my never-ending brilliance.”
“Awwww, don’t be like that. That was a real doozy of an idea; it couldn’t get much doozier. You should totally be proud of that one.” You trail your fingers down her ankle, then tug lightly on the toe of her sock. She flinches, trying to pull her foot away, to retreat from the coming onslaught, but that’s exactly what you want her to do, and the more she fights you, the farther down her sock slides off her heel.
She’s a smart cookie, though – not the type to be outfoxed by even the likes of you and your magnificent brain for too long – and partway through, she sees right through your dastardly scheme and that her struggling’s only aiding it instead of stopping it. She halts dead in her tracks, and you can see the gears whirling in her head as she struggles desperately to come up with a new plan. But as brilliant as she is, you both know this is it: there’s no hope left – nothing left for it but to go down fighting. This is her Alamo, and while she’s got the heart of a warrior, you can still see her dreading what’s to come. The fear is insidious, creeping into that stoic set of her shoulders, the grim line of her jaw, and every crease on her brow.
“Uh, could… could we just go ahead and pretend I didn’t say anything?”
“You know, this would go a lot easier if you stopped fighting and just admitted you’re having fun.”
“And what if I’m not having fun?”
“Then I’d say you’re lying,” you snipe back with a little chuckle. “Because if you weren’t having fun, how come you haven’t escaped and beaten the tar out of me yet, huh?”
She rolls her eyes at you and makes a big show out of tugging at her glop-bound wrists. “Hellooooo, hands?”
“Are we talking about the same hands I slipped the solvent into about ten minutes ago? Because you haven’t done anything with it.”
Her eyes widen and her gaze swivels back to her fingers. True to your word, right there in the palm of her left hand is a little vial, still completely untouched. She blinks in disbelief, and her cheeks turn bright red. “Um.”
“So, go ahead. You were about to say something about how I was holding you here against your will, how you’d totally escape and beat the snot out of me if you could, but that you didn’t have the means or opportunity. Please, go on. I’m interested.”
“Stop muddying sentiment with fact,” she mutters.
You laugh and then, deciding that since she hasn’t already taken advantage of the opportunity to escape, it’d be best to just remove the temptation entirely, pocket the vial of solvent “temporarily.” She glares at you, but you smile your most charming smile, (Which earns you an eyeroll from her,) and then leave her to her own devices for a bit.
You reach down and cradle her foot in your hands – or rather, try to, because she kicks like a mule the instant your palm hits her skin. The force of it nearly bowls you over, and you just barely manage to avoid going ass over teakettle. You waggle a chastising finger at her, bulldog her ankle into position – though she fights you all the way – and then start tugging once again at her sock until it peels away, leaving her foot bared and helpless. The skin of her heel is slightly thickened from all the running around she does, but the rest of her foot is impossibly sensitive. Impossibly. (And herein lies the true evil of the beauty industry. All those skin creams and conditioners and junk make you vulnerable to just this kind of attack. They don’t ever warn the ladies about that, now do they?) Anyway, it’s clear just how… touchy… she is from the way she flinches as your fingers glide over her arch, and the angry, predatory growl that forms in the back of her throat as you slide your thumb up to tease her toes. It’s like a junkyard dog, out for blood, snarling and snapping every time you get too close. All you want is to grab your baseball which has gone over the fence, but you know that if you poke a hand through, you’re going to lose it.
Still… this time, the opportunity’s too good to pass up. You’ve got to take the risk.
You push on, wrapping one of her delicate little pink toes between your thumb and forefinger and giving it a little squeeze. Her lips part and you hear a sharp little squeak just barely squeeze its way out. You grin and repeat the process on each of the other four little toes, and her entire foot curls up reflexively at your touch. Her brow furrows; she gives you the stink eye. “I’m not going to change your mind about this, am I?” She tries to repress a shiver, but she doesn’t quite manage to hide the little tremor in her shoulders.
“It was your idea.”
“We’ve established the world isn’t deserving of my genius.”
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