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Heat flushes my skin, and my toes curl. My wife. He said,my wife.He doesn’t mean those words, but the possessiveness in his tone, the protectiveness that laces his words, that thread of dominance that runs through his tone, not to mention, the craving in his gaze… All of it wraps its net around me like a spider’s web around a helpless firefly. The tension builds, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. We stare at each other, and the intent in his eyes is so salacious, so carnal, so filled with promise, a shiver sweeps through me.
"What happened next?" the journalist interrupts.
"Oh, he lowered his hand and walked away."
"And then?"
"Then"—he tears his gaze from mine—"then I asked her to join me for dinner."
"And did you?" She turns to me.
Trying desperately to weave some truth into his lies, I continue the deception. "I didn’t want to… But he told me I owed him. He also said if I didn’t join him, he’d understand but—"
"You joined him anyway," she says with satisfaction.
"He said he wouldn’t keep me for more than a drink," I murmur.
"But you stayed for dinner."
I open my mouth to deny it, but Rick steps in. "After which, we walked by the river, and we couldn’t stop talking until the wee hours of the morning."
"Hmm." She taps her fingers. "So, you must know a lot about each other then?"
His forehead creases, then he nods. "Oh, I made it my mission to find out everything about the love of my life."
Her features soften, then she seems to get a hold of herself. "So, you wouldn’t mind if I asked the two of you to take a quiz about the other?"
My heart rate accelerates.No, no, no, I can’t do that.I don’t know that much about this guy. This is going to be a car crash. I begin to shake my head, but once again, Mr. Know-it-all jerkhole beats me to it.
"Of course, we’d be happy to oblige you."
"You okay with that?" She turns to me.
"Umm." I bite the inside of my cheek. If I say yes, she'll figure out we're lying. If I say no, she’ll know something is wrong. I try to pull my hand away from his, but his grip tightens. I try to signal to him with my eyes that I don’t want to do this. He shakes his head, and I know he’s right. We don’t have a choice. We need to do this. I manage to tip my chin down, then up.
"Awesome." The journalist’s features light up. "My first question is for Rick. What is Georgina’s favorite color?"
Ha, no way, does he know that. I try not to smirk, but I’d be lying if I said my lips don’t twitch.
His eyebrows draw down, he opens his mouth, shakes his head, then says, "Red."
She turns to me and asks, "Is he right?"
Rick
Goldie seems taken aback, then slowly nods. To be honest, I’m a little surprised I got that right. But I’ve noticed how she favors red heels, which makes me wonder how it would be to have them digging into my back; and red lipstick, prints of which I’ve imagined around my cock; and red painted nails, with which I want her to mark my skin.
"And Rick’s favorite color?" the journalist asks her.
"That’s easy, it’s black," Goldie scoffs.
"It is," I affirm.
"Which season is her favorite?" The journalist asks me.
"Autumn," I say without hesitation. When the gold of the leaves matches the sparks in her eyes.
Gio’s gaze widens, then she tosses her head. "And his is winter."A season as cold as his heartis what she communicates with her eyes.
