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“Clint, I’m not sure about Thanksgiving—”
Someone called him, and I heard an impatient bark. “Dammit, I’m sorry. I have to go. Can I call you later?” He paused. “And can you actually answer?”
“Sure. Go. I hope it’s not too awful. I…” I bit my lip. “Call anytime you want.”
He let out a relieved breath. “Thanks. You don’t know how good it is to hear your voice.”
“Because I sound like a phone sex operator?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that…” Then he laughed. “It doesn’t hurt. Talk to you later, sweetheart.”
Then he clicked off as if men casually referred to me that way all the time.
Sure, right.
I hung up and went to make more cookies. He’d taken most of them to work. After the day he had in store, he deserved them. Maybe he’d want more when he got done with work…
Yeah, I was not thinking that way.
But I still made two dozen and settled in to check my work email with a plate of them still hot from the oven beside me.
Mag hadn’t emailed. Hadn’t texted. I supposed that was on me. Well, not entirely. But as a recovering people pleaser, I blamed myself for not recognizing the cues that sending someone you weren’t having sex with a sex toy meant…well, the obvious meaning. No matter how they explained it away.
I’d completely missed that Magnus wanted to have sex with me. Whoa.
What was I supposed to do now? I wished I could talk to Clint about it even if he was probably the last one I should tell.
How could he be jealous or possessive over me when he barely knew me?
Same way you’re baking him all the cookies and replaying him saying the word sweetheart in his low, gravelly voice.
Man, I wished I hadLove’s Torrid Embracealready. Waiting a week to receive the book sucked. I wanted to stroke that cover…
Possibly while I stroked myself.
Always the safest sex anyone could have, especially emotionally.
But then I thought of the bullet that I couldn’t use anymore without suspecting there was more to Mag’s thought process in giving it to me. And I could not and would not ask him.
So I was going to have to say goodbye to the damn thing—in a way that properly befit its place of honor in my life until its tainted origins had rendered it useless to me.
Still, it was good to be able to take care of yourself. I would not be beholden to a man for my orgasms.
Tell that to Clint.
I would. Maybe. If the conversation became necessary.
In the meantime, I’d back up my thoughts with actions and order my own damn bullet off Amazon.
Holy cannoli was that an education. My bullet was clearly a low-grade model. It only did a few things. Granted, it did them well, but wow, I was missing out.
My silver AMEX was smoking within minutes. Also, I would need a bigger Bible. Mine would not accommodate the three so-not-bullets I’d purchased.
I’d worry about that later once I made sure I liked them. Not that they could be returned.
I picked up my now empty cookie plate—I hadn’t meant to eat them all—and washed it in the kitchen before I gave in to my desire to wrap up the rest of the cookies in Christmas paper.
Because I was a sap and I knew Clint would be exhausted after work and he was such a good guy, he deserved someone who baked cookies for him.
