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He stares back at me. "You ever like any of these guys you date?"
"Sometimes."
He steps forward, planting his foot in front of me. "You kiss them?"
"Sometimes."
"More?"
His posture is strong, powerful, from his all black converse to the tip of his dark hair.
How am I supposed to answer when he's looking at me like that—like he's in control of the entire universe?
I pick up a fuchsia pencil case and undo its zipper. "You want to know this because?"
"Making conversation." His voice wavers.
It's more than that.
I want to know how much more. To know how far along he is on the I'll never think about you again/we're totally just friends journey.
I move away from the bags—this is enough—and start wandering through the first floor.
He follows. "Do you?"
I stop at the jewelry counter and pretend to examine a set of silver earrings. My eyes flit between him and the glass display case. Is he jealous? I'm not sure. "I have."
His jaw cricks. His hands curl into half-fists then unfurl.
He is jealous.
The thought fills me with feminine power.
"You let guys feel you up?" Envy drips into his voice.
I stare into his eyes. "Sometimes."
He stares back. "You let them touch your cunt?"
"What?" My cheeks flush. The salesgirl is only a dozen feet away. She's talking to another customer. Did she hear? Did both of them?
"You let guys stroke you to orgasm?"
"That isn't the word you used."
He wraps his hand around my wrist and leads me to the escalator. "It made you flinch."
"No."
"Yeah."
"No." I make eye contact through the mirrored wall. We look like opposites the way we always do—dark and masculine versus light and girly. But we look good together. "It didn't faze me at all."
He raises a brow. Breaks our mirror eye contact to turn to me. "Really?"
"Really." In theory.
Brendon leans in to whisper. He combs my hair back, behind my ear. "Then say it."
