“Are you?”
“No, but—”
“I already knew that because you ate that Krispy Kreme burger.” She held up a finger. “No, you ate two.”
“So you’re telling me, you choose not only where we go and what we do, but what we—or to be more exact, what I—eat. Tell me, do I have a choice in what I think or what I say?”
“Of course.”
He bit his lip.
Don’t do it. Don’t … fuck it.
“And what about where I look?” His eyes swept from hers down her throat and only stopped when they’d reached that bodacious cleavage. He could almost swear it was speaking to him.
Go ahead, slip your fingers in, right here. Let’s see if they fit.
“If you want to rattle a girl, you’ll have to find another one if that’s all you’ve got. You can look where you like or choose. But then so can I. I can’t see much sitting as we are. But if you were to stand up …”
He could feel that searing burn in his cheeks and hoped the lighting in here was too dark for her to notice. He slammed both hands on the table, stood up, and her eyes went to that spot right between his thighs. As he’d expected. He just hadn’t expected his cock to salute her. Fuck, if she wasn’t its commanding officer.
Seeing her smirk, he hurriedly sat down. Why play this game? With this girl? He was bound to lose.
“You’ll get your turn,” she said. “You’ll be choosing on the next date. Also you got to choose the last one. And if you think about it, it should have been my choice. I paid for that date. I bought you.”
“So, I was at your service?”
Her lip curved as she shrugged one shoulder and spoke in a flippant tone, “Yes.”
He felt his dick twitch at that wordservice.
He wondered if he could choose what she wore on the next date. What he really wanted was to see her in that catsuit. Then again, if he got to choose what she wore on the next date, that would mean she would choose what he wore on the following one. And God only knows what that might be.
“Reasonable.” She chuckled. “What does that even mean when we’re talking food? Aunt Delilah said you reminded her of the Count of Monte Cristo when she watched you eat. You’re so measured. So restrictive. Why is that?”
“Well obviously, I do it for my health. But also I suppose to keep temptation under control.”
His eyes drifted to her lips. Recalling his dreams, he couldn’t decide which were sweeter, those lips or the ones down south.
She nodded. “The Krispy Kreme burgers and how many was it—three or four deep-fried s’mores?”
Exactly.
“Could it be that rather than Sir Stick having too little appetite, he has too much?”
She was playing with him. But something in her eyes told him she wanted to hear his answer. It was because of that, he remained silent.
After waiting a moment, she moved on. “Wait until you see where we’re going after dinner.”
“Let me guess. The Cathedral of Junk?”
She blinked, surprised, before shaking her head.
“The Museum of the Weird?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I know! Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum.” He paused. “Oh, wait a minute. That’s just outside of Dallas.”
