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This man did things to my body last night that were entirely new. I’m not sure my booty hole will ever be the same. But I liked everything he did. Beyond a lot. I felt like I was finally having sex with someone whose appetite matched my own. And he actually surpassed it, exceeding expectations. But I can’t let myself dwell on just how incredible it was because it might make me want more.
And that’s not allowed.
He leans back against the counter and regards me for a moment. He’s still smiling. And still so, so attractive. “I figured you’d say this.”
“Did… um… Alannah put you up to this?” I ask.
He moistens his lips, but doesn’t say anything right away, so I keep talking. “She knows I’ve been going through some stuff, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Don’t worry, I’m not… not mad or anything if she did.”
I wait. He gives me nothing.
“Are you just gonna keep me guessing here?” I ask.
“Nobody puts me up to anything, Chloe. And no, I haven’t talked to your friend Alannah about you.”
“Oh,” I whisper.
He sips his coffee and then opens a cupboard door and pulls down two plates. I watch him divide the scrambled eggs between them. He reaches into a mostly empty fridge and pulls out a small store-bought fruit tray and a bottle of orange juice.
I frown as I watch him move to the table, which he’s already set with cutlery and napkins.
“Ketchup for your eggs?” he asks.
I wrinkle my nose. “Eww.”
“Thank God,” he mutters.
“Hm?”
He smiles. “Just can’t stand that. Glad I won’t have to watch you debase your eggs like that.”
I scoff. “Kind of ironic considering the degradation that happened in there last night, don’t you think?” I hook my thumb over my shoulder.
“No,” he denies, a serious look on his face. “Nothing ugly about any of what we did last night as far as I’m concerned. Did any of it feel debasing to you?”
I’m taken aback. Heat creeps up my cheeks and I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Then why say it?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Never been in this position before.”
He studies me for a too-long moment. I’m saved from his study when the toaster pops. He looks mildly irritated as he moves back to the counter and drops two pieces of toast on each plate. He grabs a knife and butters them sort of aggressively.
“Can you grab the jam from the fridge, baby?” he mutters and walks them to the table.
I open the fridge and see a jar of jam on the otherwise empty top shelf. The only other things in this fridge are a quart of cream in the door and a carton of eggs on the middle shelf along with some condiments in the door of the fridge.
“Good jam choice,” I say in an effort to lighten the mood. Because I think I’ve pissed him off.
I sit across from him and look at my plate. Perfectly scrambled eggs. Perfectly toasted marble rye bread.
Realization sinks in.
“You sure you didn’t talk to Alannah about me?” I ask.
“I already said I didn’t.”
“Then how’d you know I like rye toast?” My eyes hit the jam jar. “And seedless raspberry jam?”
