Free The Things She Says by Kat Cantrell

cinnamon. He wanted to slide a strand against his palm—to test the temperature.
    His fingers clenched into a fist against his leg.
    Her hand accidentally bumped his and the spot on his knuckle where they’d touched turned immediately sensitive. Her heat was blatant, easy to sort from the radiating concrete, but not easy to dismiss.
    He was obsessing over the way VJ walked. What was wrong with him? He’d spent less time setting up a camera to shoot a Dutch angle.
    An agonizingly silent eternity later, he followed her into the Scrambler’s empty queue. They threaded through the turns and at the bend of one, he misjudged her speed. The collision of his chest with her back triggered a shock. He got a whiff of coconut from her hair and blood shot straight to his groin.
    Torture. That must be stage three. There was no other explanation.
    A grizzled ride operator took the tickets from Kris’s hand and lifted the bar on the closest car. Kris climbed in. VJ wedged in next to him, ignoring the four feet of seat on her other side. The operator slammed the bar into place, and as they were the only thrill-seekers around, shuffled off to the control box.
    “Put your arm around me,” VJ said, and nudged him when he didn’t immediately comply. “I mean it. The centrifugal force on this thing is going to hurt if you don’t.”
    Physics. That was a new angle. He secured his sunglasses, slung an arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled up against him, curving into his body naturally. Of course, because it fit well with the torture theme playing out under the guise of teaching him about romance.
    Gears ground, tinny, harpsichord music bleated through the air, and the ride started spinning. As it gained momentum, VJ pressed closer and closer until he couldn’t have shoved her away with both hands, mostly because one was occupied with hanging on and the other had snaked into place against VJ’s stomach, which filled his palm nicely. He thoroughly enjoyed it.
    As he guessed was the intent.
    Most of his blood kept his jeans uncomfortably tight, but some of it still circulated in his brain. Enough to be suspicious of the convenient ride choice.
    Eventually, the ride slowed but his head kept going. The ride operator unlocked the safety bar, and Kris tried to stand, but his legs buckled. VJ was having trouble with watery legs, too, so he left his arm around her—to keep them both off the ground, no other reason. They staggered for the exit.
    She led him to a couple of other rides in the same vein but he couldn’t have named them at gunpoint. He was too busy inventing ways to continue innocently touching her. Taking her hand to help her into a ride. Brushing hair off her shoulder so it wouldn’t get in her eyes when the speed increased. Buying a tub of buttery popcorn and reaching into it at the same moment she did.
    It was challenging to keep rationalizing it as carnival fun, but she’d started it and he ached to finish it.
    “Next up?” he asked. “Funnel cakes maybe?”
    “Ferris wheel,” she said decisively.
    Abandoning pretense, he laced his fingers with hers and they ambled toward the Ferris wheel. She pretended not to notice they were holding hands, as if they’d done this a thousand times, but there was no way she could ignore the sizzle of awareness melding with the sun’s heat. Thirst lashed the back of his throat, and the crevice between his shoulder blades beaded with sweat and frustration.
    He was human and a guy. He needed water and VJ naked. Not necessarily in that order. Or separately. And he couldn’t have the one he really wanted. Which sucked.
    The Ferris wheel car swung dizzily as they settled into it, or maybe his head was spinning with images of undressing VJ, slowly revealing those perfect breasts. Once the bar was secured, she turned and searched his face. Her eyes matched the summer sky, and it was the perfect shot. When was the last time he’d even thought about filming her? Forever ago, before the