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“You need to stop doing that.”
Fatima’s fingers still on the back of OA’s neck and she looks at him, her eyes wide. That answers one of OA’s questions - she genuinely had no idea that, when she was curled up on the couch beside him, she was also absently playing with the hair at the back of his neck. Which means she has no idea of the effect that she’s having on him. “Stop doing what?” she asks and he chuckles, reaches up to tap her wrist, her fingers still in his hair.
“You’ve been playing with my hair for most of the movie,” he tells her. “I haven’t been able to concentrate on a thing.”
Fatima bites her lip, looking contrite. “I’m sorry… I didn’t realise…”
She moves her hand and OA misses the sensation immediately. “You don’t need to apologise.” He catches her fingers, brings them to his lips. “But if you want to see the rest of the movie, you need to keep your hands to yourself. Or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
It’s half threat, half promise, all truth. It brings a devilish glimmer to her eyes, one that only intensifies when she reaches for the remote control and shuts off the television. As she tosses the remote to one side, she moves so that she’s sitting on his lap, her legs on either side of his knees. Her hands, both of them, meet at the back of his neck, slide up into his hair and she rocks against him, a tiny sigh emerging from her lips when she encounters the proof of just how much he’s been affected by her.
“And what if I don’t want to see the rest of the movie?” she asks him and he smiles, sliding his hands up her back and into her hair - after all, turnabout is fair play. The noise that she makes is something akin to a purr and she rolls her hips against him again.
“Then we won’t.”
Bringing his lips to hers, he makes sure movies are the last thing on her mind.