“You seem to have an awful lot of rich guys vying for your attention.”
“True…”
“Is he richer than me?”
The asshole nods. “I believe so.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“Jealous?”
“Territorial. I don’t like competition.”
“I don’t believe my dad can be competition to you. At least, not in that regard.”
“Your…dad?”
“Yeah.” He strides toward me, and I stand straighter, myspine snapping upright as he wraps an arm around my waist. “I can only accept the bike you gave me, baby.”
My throat dries as his closeness overwhelms me, but before it can sneak into my rib cage and cause out-of-character behavior, I push him away, stepping back. “Don’t touch me in public.”
He tilts his head to the side, a flash of darkness passing through his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not gay.”
He laughs, the sound unhinged. “You’ve come on my hands and cock and tongue more than I can count, and you agreed to be with me exclusively, and you’re stillnotgay? The closet is invisible at this point.”
“I amnotgay.” I haul him by the collar, my voice straining. “Not with you, and definitelynotin public. We’re strangers in the outside world, and this is just fucking.”
His eyes turn cold. “Is it just fucking?”
“It is. Don’t act like those clingy people who grow feelings after meaningless fucks and mistake lust for something else, Marcus. If you start wanting emotional nonsense from me, this is over. Are we fucking clear?”
“Crystal.”
I don’t like his clipped tone. I also don’t like how easily I got worked up just now, throwing a goddamn toddler tantrum.
But then again, he should learn when to stop pushing.
“Are you going to hold me for long?” he deadpans. “I thought there should be no touching in public.”
I release him with a jerk and he steps away, then closes the garage as I stand to the side, kind of awkwardly, because Marcus isn’t talking.
He’s always the one who starts conversations, so this type of deliberate silence feels oppressive.
After he’s done, he leads me through a door that opens into the kitchen. It’s a small space, and both of us instantly crowd it, but I still look around the neatly displayed pans, the earth-tone color scheme, and the clearly labeled spice jars.
There’s a round table with only two chairs, topped by olive green cushions.
Marcus removes his jacket and places it on one of the chairs, then washes his hands—without looking at me. “I’ll whip up something simple. You can go watch TV if you want. Help yourself to a drink from the fridge.”
I should leave.
The mood has annoyingly changed since the conversation in the garage, and if it’s going to continue like this, I’d rather go.
But then again, I’m finally in his house, and I might never get another chance like this to snoop around and figure him out.
I stop near the door. “Is your mom coming back anytime soon?”
