Page 31
I don’t have to make him like me. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if he does. So I spread my things out on the sink and start my post-shower moisturizing routine. Pretty soon, everything smells like sugar and vanilla. Luckily, I marinated in tanner last night. It made my legs look amazing; I do a turn in my shortest pair of lounge shorts. Over them, I on a skimpy little top with a pink heart stretched across my boobs. If he wants me here, I’m gonna make him suffer.
He’s been thinking about me, that much is obvious.
Still, all I want to do is fight him. If he wanted me, why didn’t he pick up his phone and text me? I was literally at his fingertips. Sure, we fought the entire time we fucked the first time around, but it was also the best sex he’d ever had. I can tell; it was all over his face, too, when he shoved his enormous dick inside me.
Whatever.
Fucking whatever.
I leave the bathroom to find the bedroom empty. He has to be in the kitchen; everything smells faintly of something cooking. I follow the scent and find him looking very good in a pair of gray sweatpants by the stove, sausage frying in a cast-iron skillet.
“Why’d you put your clothes on?” he says.
I shrug. “I’m not sure we’re close enough that I’ll run around your house naked.”
“But you’ll let me fuck you.”
“Yep.”
He turns the heat down low and puts the lid on. “You want coffee? Wine?”
I consider. “What are you having?”
“Bourbon.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’ll have wine. Rosé, please.”
He disappears through a door beside the fridge and comes out with a bottle, dusting it off and reaching for the wine corker.
“You have a wine cellar?”
“Yep.”
“God, you’re such a rich asshole.”
He pours a glass of wine, handing it over. “And you’re a spoiled brat. Pot, meet kettle.”
I gasp. “I am not.”
His brow arches, a full answer in and of itself. Without asking, he grabs me around the waist with his big, dumb hands and lifts me on the counter.
“Sit here, stop being a brat,” he says.
“You’re only making this harder for yourself,” I snap.
He goes to the fridge, glancing back. “Or what? You’re gonna suck my dick even harder later? Come on, you love a good hate-fuck, and you know it.”
“Just call me a crazy bitch, Jesus Christ.”
He comes back with a bottle of water and sets it down. “Crazy bitch.”
“Arrogant asshole.”
He points at me briefly. “You are correct, sweetheart.”
I set my wine aside, glancing at his groin. He’s a shower, not a grower, and the sight of it hanging there beneath the fabric drives me wild. He comes to stand between my knees. I could kiss him or slap him; either would work. Instead, he puts his hands on my thighs and runs them all the way up until his fingertips slip beneath my shorts.
“No panties,” he says.
