Page 27 of Weston’s Treasure

“I knew you couldn’t wait to rub that in my face and embarrass me.”

If it was possible for every muscle in Weston’s body to simultaneously bunch, they did.

“Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re right, I did. I was just hoping I heard you wrong. You serious with this shit?”

“Well, it didn’t take you long to bring it up.”

“I didn’t bring it up to embarrass you, I brought it up to remind you, we had most certainly checked your snarky attitude. The proof of that is when I put you in this bed you were dripping wet for me. So much so, your pussy leaked onto my sheets.”

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“You can’t?” He gave me a taste of his own snarky attitude. “Well, let me finish with this, since you’re already in a state of disbelief. Seeing that spot, knowing I was the reason your pussy was dripping, remembering that I was the one who made you so wild you fucked my fingers until you exploded, my name on your tongue, my fingers inside you, my mouth on your tits, made me so fucking hard I was getting lightheaded. I liked seeing that wet spot. Any man would, knowing he was the reason it was there. So do you remember now?”

I said nothing because I was speechless. No one had ever spoken to me the way Weston had. Not that I’d been in bed with that many men. Two to be exact. And three more fooling around on the couch, but none of them had been so crass. None had uttered the word pussy in my presence, let alone talked about what their fingers had done to it.

“You ready to check that attitude again?” he asked.

“No.”

“At least she’s honest,” he muttered. “What did you mean, when you told me you weren’t that type of girl?”

“I’m not easy,” I told him.

“You sure as fuck aren’t.”

“That’s not how I meant it and you know it. I’ve never done that before.”

“Done—”

“Seriously, you’re gonna make me spell it out?”

Not even Weston when he was acting like a jerk would be so obtuse.

“Which part have you never done?” he asked.

And the only reason I answered was because he’d lost the attitude and sounded concerned.

“None of it. In the past, I’ve chosen the men I’ve been with carefully. I’ve dated them before I allowed them to kiss me. I’ve never attacked a man like that. I’ve never spread my legs on command. I’ve never done any of that on a kitchen counter. So I’m not a slut.”

Oh no! Back was the stone-faced, pissed-off Weston.

“Babe, even if you had done all of that and did it regularly with a variety of men, it still wouldn’t make you a slut. You’re a beautiful, adult woman, with a healthy sex drive—”

“I don’t have a healthy sex drive. I haven’t even had sex in…”

And it happened again, I was running off at the mouth, sounding like a fool.

“All right, let me break this down for you. And I know you wanna have this conversation about as much as you want your fingernails ripped out, but it has to be had.” Well, thank God he understood my plight, though it didn’t sound like he was going to let me off the hook. “First, I had my fingers inside of you—I know it’s been a very long time since you’ve had sex.”

“Kill me now,” I grumbled. “I don’t even wanna know how you could know that.”

“Babe, you are tight as hell. Virgin-tight and there’s no way you’re getting sex on the regular when all it took was a few strokes of my thumb on your clit and you went off the way you did. And before you twist that up in your head, I loved it, all of it. Every sound you made, how you held nothing back. You feel good, you taste good, and, sweetheart, you looked gorgeous coming around my fingers. With that said, I wasn’t getting in bed with you to fuck you. I certainly didn’t think you were some foregone conclusion and I could come in here and expect you to spread for me. What happened downstairs got out of hand and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I wasn’t sure what was worse, Weston using the word pussy fifty-two times or the sound of regret in his tone.