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“Really?” I ask with doubt.
“Really.”
“After the way she’s treated you?”
“You made me feel sorry for her.”
I stare at Bridget. She, a woman whose high in life is driving a Honda Accord, feels sorry for Kimberly, a beautiful woman who, even if she doesn’t end up marrying Drumm, will find some sugar daddy twice her age, and could very well live in the lap of luxury for the rest of her life? It makes no sense.
I’d better fuck her soon. I don’t want her nonsense rubbing off on me.
“Don’t,” I tell her. “She’d never feel sorry for you.”
Bridget tilts her head to one side as she studies at me. “So you dated her because…she’s hot?”
“That’s as good a reason as any, isn’t it?”
“It’s a good reason to have sex, but usually there’s a little more going on for a relationship.”
Deciding I need a drink, I ask. “You want something more than water? I’m gonna get myself a bourbon.”
I walk out into living room and over to the bar. It’s an open floor plan, so we can still hold a conversation while she remains in the kitchen.
“You a couples’ therapist on the side?” I ask as I pour myself a shot.
“Just interested in people. Curious what kind of guy you are.”
I down the shot. “You don’t want to know.”
“Now why would you say that?”
Not liking the way her gaze is boring into me, I pour myself another shot. I should have her leave. Find another Kimberly or an Olga to invite up to my place instead. I know what to do with women like that. I don’t know what to do with a Bridget Moore.
“If I were a therapist, I’d say that kind of statement suggests self-esteem issues,” she teases. “Either that or you’re trying to be mysterious.”
Glass of bourbon in hand, I walk back to her and stand close enough to catch a whiff of whatever shampoo she uses. What’s a mystery is why I want to jump her bones right now.
As if sensing my thoughts, she takes a step back to put distance between us. But she bumps into the counter behind her.
“So what about you shouldn’t I know?” she asks.
Putting the shot glass down on the counter behind her, I lean in and lower my voice. “I don’t give a fuck about learning how to boil eggs.”
Her lashes flutter quickly. It seems she wants to look away from me, but she’s a deer caught in my headlights.
“Oh,” was all she musters for a reply.
“And you don’t either,” I tell her.
She looks affronted. “Just because I came up here doesn’t mean I—”
Cupping her jaw, I cut off her words with a kiss. Not a devouring one, but a firm, demanding one that gives her a glimpse of how much I want her.
She tastes good. She smells good. She feels good.
Incredibly so.
My ardor spikes. I want more, but I have to gauge her reception. When I pull away, her breath is uneven, her pupils dilated, her lips soft.
