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“I won’t?” I question, pulling up a bar stool and taking a seat.
“No.” He uses his firm voice. Which I’m starting to think that he uses it a lot with me. “You won’t. The less you know about what happened after, the better.” He takes down a bottle of whiskey and grabs two glasses before walking back around and taking a seat beside me. He grips onto my chair, spinning me around to face him then proceeds to pour whiskey into each glass.
“We’re going to play a game.”
Oh Lord.
“Hmmm,” I tease, taking the glass he’s handing me. “What kind?”
He loses his tie and pops the first few buttons off of his collar, displaying the tip of what I know is a very ripped and very tanned chest. My mouth waters. I throw my leg over the other one to cross my legs in an attempt to calm the throbbing ache that has started in between my legs—
He laughs, tossing back his whiskey.
“Something funny?” I quirk an eyebrow and take a small sip of my drink. There’s no way I’m losing control with alcohol, who knows what I’d say. I’m not worried what I’d do, just my mouth. It always seems to get me in trouble.
“Yeah, the fact that you’re insatiable is rather funny.”
“I’m in control. Complete control.” I stretch my arms wide to accentuate my point. My point is pretty bent because I’m not in control at all. He makes me all… stupid.
He regards me by pouring more whiskey. “We’re playing twenty-one questions.” I can do this. I think. I can lie, I’m rather good at lying. I look at Bryant, his eyes connecting with mine and holding my attention far too effortlessly for my comfort.
Ok, nope. I don’t think I can lie to that. Fuck.
I throw back another shot of whiskey. “Is this like husband-wife bonding time?”
His eyes narrow at me in obvious annoyance. “Something like that.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll start!” Down goes another shot, to hell with not losing control, this is going to be torturous. “Do I annoy you?”
“Oh that’s easy.” He grins, and goddamn I would give my left arm to see that grin again. Not really, because I’m left-handed so that arm is pretty important, but Bryant always has a great grin. “Yes. Daily.” He finishes with a wink. “My turn…” I’m not even surprised by that answer, I wanted to start easy. You don’t fuck someone in the ass on the first date.
Or do you.
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Shit. That was hot too. Focus. I need to focus. “How many times have you orgasmed in one session?”
Well, it appears, Bryant does fuck someone in the ass on the first date. He hits it raw too, no lube.
I choke on my whiskey.
“Oh shit.” He pats my shoulder sarcastically. “It seems you had a different idea about twenty-one questions.” Then he laughs and relaxes back into his chair.
I narrow my eyes at him, swiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I don’t know. There was this one time… I think, it’s like four.”
“Four.”
I nod. “Four.” Holding four fingers up before grabbing the bottle and pouring more into my cup. “My turn!” I place the bottle back onto the counter. “Do you hate me?”
He’s still silent by my number revelation, but he searches my eyes and seems to think over my question. “What? Like in the bedroom or everyday living?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, either…”
He seems to mull over my question. A couple jaw clenches later, he answers, “Yes.” I down my entire drink. Okay, so his hate is real.
“Why did you have sex with Devon?” He flicks his glass away from him slightly.
“Because it’s comfortable…” I begin while thinking what I should say next and of course, taking control of the bottle of whiskey. “He knows what I like and how I like it. He needs it as bad as I do and it just, I don’t know. It always worked for us.”
Bryant nods. “I get that.” He does?
Wow. I’m shocked.
Knowing it’s my turn, I look right into his eyes. “Why do you keep asking me about sex? Why no real questions?”
He chuckles, his cold eyes flicking blankly over my shoulder. “Because I know everything else that there is to know about you, Isa.”
“You’re cocky.”
“Very. And I have a big one, so…”
“You’re not very funny though…” I lie, the effects of the alcohol slowly slipping into the driver’s seat of my thoughts.
“I don’t want to be funny.”
“I like funny.”
“And I don’t give a fuck what you like.”
My eyes narrow. His narrow back.
“I don’t believe you.”
“What?” He chuckles. “That I don’t know everything that there is to know about you?”
Long pause. “Yes. I don’t believe you.”
His glass dangles lazily between his fingers as he tilts his head and runs his piercing eyes up and down my body. Slowly but surely, it’s as if he’s undressing me with his stare. “Isa Maree Johnson, one sister, mom ran away when you were a baby, sister is the poster child of the family, you’re the rebel—one of the reasons why your favorite color is black—you have three piercings, three tattoos, childhood best friend—except for Devon—was Jennifer Black, first car was a piece of shit Honda, you play the lottery for the excitement even though you know you’d never win and you have enough money in your trust account to put the lottery winners to shame, oh, and you’ve always wanted to be an architect.” My mouth is still open when he finishes because everything he said was spot-on. I’m appalled. And a little turned on.
