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You’ll be the one plowing me after my party.
Did I just groan?
“Why do you keep licking your lips?”
Because I’ve never had waxed pussy against my mouth, and now I’m dying to try it.
“They’re dry.”
She reaches into her bag, her eyes bright and searching. She knows better, but she doesn’t call me on my shit either. This may be the very first time.
“Here.”
“I’m not wearing lip gloss.”
“It’s Chapstick. Don’t be such a man about it.”
“No glitter?” I ask, looking down at the tube in my hand.
“None.”
Leaning my head down as if I’m doing something shameful, I twist off the top and glide the sticky shit across my lips.
“Better?”
I grunt in response.
At least we’ve moved past her grinding her lips together.
“Two bacon, turkey, and avocado paninis. Two waters and a large bag of baked jalapeno chips,” Remington orders when she’s asked.
“Hungry today,” I muse and she just rolls her eyes at me.
We stand to the side, taking our food when it comes out. Unable to resist, I pull her chair out for her when she locates a vacant table, but her hand grabs mine when I go to step away.
“Have lunch with me.” She slides a basket with one of the paninis to the other side of the table before moving one of the bottles of water beside it.
I don’t move, staying standing and looking down at her.
“Please? I hate eating alone.”
And that’s how she convinces me. Any fool with eyes in their head can see it. She gets no attention from her parents, none from her friends, and very limited from me.
Don’t the people in her life know how amazing she actually is? I know I do, although that hasn’t kept me from putting distance between us despite that being more about me and much less about her.
Pleading green eyes blink up at me, and every excuse I could make fades away.
“I love this type of sandwich,” I say as I settle into the seat across from her, waiting for her to pick her sandwich up and take a bite before I lift mine to my mouth.
“I know. Margarita told me.”
Margarita is the family’s cook, and the woman is a genius in the kitchen. I’ve had to up my workout routine because resisting her food is impossible. It’s a sacrifice I make easily, and something I’ll miss once I go back home.
“Have you ever thought of getting a dog?” I ask after wiping my mouth.
A wistful look takes over her pretty face. “I’ve always wanted one, but Mother doesn’t want to deal with hair all over the place.”
I open my mouth to remind her that her mother is never home, but that’s something she’s already all too aware of.
“When you move out, maybe?”
She looks away, the apples of her cheeks pinking. “I could never leave. If I walk out, I don’t get to take anything with me.”
Surely her parents wouldn’t let her enter the world with nothing. They have more than enough to spare. I didn’t see it until now, but she’s in a prison, and that makes me her damn prison guard.
“You could get a job.” I voice it with as much levity as I can manage. I’m not trying to offend her, but surely, she’s considered the possibilities of being on her own and making her own decisions. I’ve learned enough about her during the time we spent together that she’s capable of many things.
“A job?” She laughs. “And what would a starlet’s daughter with limited college hours do in the great big world?”
I shrug. “You could waitress.”
She stares at me, but it’s not an angry look. Doesn’t she know how free she can be? How exhilarating making her own choices would be?
“Or a yoga instructor. You could teach pole classes. You’re very good at that.”
Phenomenal actually.
“Or I could be a stripper.”
“No.” I set my bottle of water down with enough violence to force a spout of water to shoot out of the top.
She chuckles, the sound telling me she has the ability to read me like an open book as she uses a napkin to dry the wetness from the table.
“So, not a stripper then? I don’t have the skills to make enough money to survive without my parents help. They’d shit a brick if someone found out their daughter was working what they consider a menial job for minimum wage. No one can survive alone like that, and I like my privacy too much to get roommates.”
“It may be impossible in New York, but there are forty-nine other states in America.”
She shrugs, her face losing the dreamy look it had only for a few brief seconds while she considered the possibilities.
“If your parents don’t want you working as a stripper, then they should either give you more freedom or the help to do things apart from them.”
“Freedom is earned, and if I can’t learn to behave, then those privileges aren’t ever going to happen.”
