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"And I thought I was the one getting married. This man may beat me to it." Liam smirks.
"Shut the fuck up," I snap, then spring up to my feet. "Lena, hold on, you can ride home with me."
"You didn’t have to ferry me back to your place."
"It’s your home, too," I point out.
"Temporarily," she shoots back.
"Of course. I was done anyway at 7A. No sense in you taking public transport back when I’m headed the same way by car."
"Have you ever driven or been driven in anything else except this—?" She gestures with her hand to the confines of the back seat of my Rolls.
I’d like to drive my cock into you."What’s wrong with my car?" I drawl.
"Nothing." She looks away. "If you don’t mind the agony of being unfashionable."
"What did you say?"
"Eh?" She coughs into her hand. "Me? I didn’t say anything."
"You’re being a brat again," I warn.
"Just stating a fact, is all. This ride of yours..."
"You mean my Rolls?"
"Is not exactly the height of being ‘with it.’" She makes air quotes with her fingers.
"It’s a Rolls," I counter.
"Exactly. If it were a Porsche—"
"Too small," I retort.
"Or a Lamborghini—"
"Too predictable," I scoff.
"An Aston Martin?"
"And invite comparisons with Bond?"
"How about a…" She pushes her finger into her cheek.
"A Jaguar?" We both say at the same time, then look at each other in surprise.
"That’s so you." Her cheeks curve.
"Is it?"
She nods. "Stylish, sporty, with presence, yet lots of speed, and a certain sleek machismo about it."
"You think I’m macho?"
She rolls her eyes. "You know you are, and if you dare repeat what I said to anyone else, I’ll deny it."
"Even if I told your boyfriend?"
