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ChapterTwenty-One
“This is our wedding night,”on-screen Lemon says coyly, her speech slurred. She then darts a glance at the giant bed.
Slut.
On-screen Art walks up to her. “It sure is.”
Lemon gets on her tiptoes, licks his earlobe, and very loudly whispers, “Someone should lose their virginity.”
Art’s nostrils flare. “Should they?”
“Emphatically.” Lemon’s gaze shifts to her crotch. “To that end, are you ready to eat… crème brûlée?”
I, the semi-sober Lemon watching, feel myself turning into an orange. At my side, Art’s gaze is glued to the screen, his lips slightly parted.
On-screen Art looks at Lemon’s Manolo Blahniks, then drags his gaze up until his eyes lock with Lemon’s. “Who knew my kislik was so traditional?”
“So traditional.” Breaking eye contact, Lemon leaps for the desk and picks up the phone. She must’ve dialed room service because she orders the crème brûlée, along with whipped cream, cookies, cakes, and so on.
The more items she lists, the higher video-Art’s eyebrows go.
“Are you sure you ordered enough?” he asks when Lemon hangs up.
She shrugs. “I assume it’s not just crème brûlée you’ve never tasted. Am I wrong, my sweets virgin?”
His eyes flare, and I can feel the heat in his gaze even through the screen.
“Well then,” Lemon says in her best seductress voice. “The devirginizing will go on all night if it has to.”
Huh. Is it weird that I like my blackout-drunk self? It’s just too bad that being her comes with the price of such a terrible headache—not to mention what’s about to happen on the screen.
“So,” on-screen Art says huskily. “What do we do in the meantime?”
Lemon steals another glance at the bed. “What did you have in mind?”
Art’s jaw tenses, and he takes a step toward her. Suddenly, someone chirps from off camera.
“Crap, Fluffer,” Art exclaims and disappears for a second, coming back with the carrier.
Ah. Right. The poor chinchilla.
Art takes the creature out of the carrier, and they snuggle together, like a child and his stuffed toy.
Huh. Fluffer looks blissed out. Then again, who wouldn’t be?
“Can I try that?” Lemon asks.
Art hands the pet to her, but when she tries to copy what Art did, Fluffer scurries away, looking deathly afraid.
“You scared him,” Art says, then extends his hand to the little critter and says something soothing in Russian. The chinchilla must speak some Russian—or really like Art—because in a few seconds, they’re snuggling together once more.
Lemon narrows her eyes at the chinchilla. “Is that a boy or a girl?”
“Boy.” Art pointedly shows her the creature’s belly.
I squint at the screen. There is zero evidence one way or the other. It probably takes an expert to sex them—someone like my chick sexer mother, who can somehow tell roosters and hens apart when they’re six weeks old.
On-screen Lemon huffs and nearly falls on her ass. “If he’s a he, why is he so chummy with you and not with me?”
