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“We had just one school, but yeah. Vodka tasted so nasty I still cringe when I drink it.”
Huh. Maybe this is how you get people not to drink: let them taste it way too young.
“Where did you even get it? Does it come out of the faucet in Russia in lieu of water?”
He chuckles. “My friends and I stole some from the janitor’s bottle. Replaced it with water. He was too drunk to notice.”
I put on a mock-disappointed expression. “Too bad. I so wanted to devirginize you.”
“Well, you can take my crème brûlée virginity once we’re in Vegas.”
“You’ve never had crème brûlée?” That’s like having toys nailed down to the floor as a kid.
“I’ve never had many types of desserts,” he says. “That just happens to be one I know the name of.”
“It’s a deal then.” I grin. “I’m taking your crème brûlée virginity.”
He offers me his hand, and at first, I assume it’s to shake on the deal, but it turns out he’s helping me get off the table.
“Would you mind returning the favor?” He nods at the place I was just occupying. “My calves are still in knots from my last performance.”
Is my jaw on the floor?
Probably.
He wants me to massage him.
As in, touch him.
It’s official.
I really, really did not masturbate enough.
