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“Not exactly.”
Sunday grips my thigh the same way I do hers, nails biting through my pants. “What do you do on real dates?”
I lift my head. Crook it and smirk. “Dangerous question, sunshine.”
The curiosity in her gaze morphs into a challenge as Sunday lifts her chin. “You already got me pregnant, Morgan. I think we’ve done the dangerous part, don’t you?”
No. Not nearly. We did the easy part, the fun part. We skipped the hard shit and fast-forwarded to the third act. Where Sunday sees dangers, I find comfort. Ease. An incredible welcome monotony of a zone I know, I trust, and I excel in.
But she asked. And I have never been known for my tremendous impulse control.
“I usually meet my dates at the restaurant. Somewhere private. Quiet. Where no one can see me slip a hand up their dress or into their pants.”
Sunday stutters her next breath.
“We make it quick. Barely eat. Barely talk. Touch and tease until we can’t take it anymore. I go to their place or we find a hotel.”
“They don’t go to yours?”
“Never.”
“Sounds like commitment issues.”
“Greg makes it difficult.”
“Greg?”
“The paparazzo who hasn’t left my building since I moved in.” Nice guy, despite the circumstances. Likes maple bacon donuts and Earl Grey tea—and season tickets for his nephew in exchange for him putting down the camera whenever my family visits.
“What about cars?”
“Risky. Only if I’m desperate.”
She likes that answer. A lot. Makes an appreciative noise and clenches her thighs, trapping my fingers between them. Looks at me with hooded eyes, pupils blown-out, and rasps, “Yeah?”
God, she has no idea. I was half fucking delirious with how much I wanted her that night. I would’ve fucked her right there on the bar counter if she’d asked.
Still would.
Swallowing a groan at the thought, I drop my forehead to her temple. I don’t know if it’s the sweet scent of her drugging me or the warmth between her thighs hazing my mind or the sight of white teeth assaulting a swollen bottom lip and making me dizzy with inane jealousy, but way-too-honest words slip out before I can stop them. “I don’t ask their kid what type of flowers they like so I can not fuck up right off the bat. I don’t spend dinner agonizing over whether they're having a good time. I don’t plan on doing anything but walking them to their door at the end of the night.”
For a split second, I swear she looks disappointed. “Sounds like a boring change of pace.”
With my hand between her thighs, my nose buried in her hair, and my cock fighting my zipper, I have to laugh. “This feel boring to you?”
Her no is little more than a whimper.
“You want me to stop?”
Hesitance—one brief second, but that’s all it takes. The bubble bursts. I withdraw quickly, keeping my hands and mouth to myself. “Sorry. Got carried away.”
Looking like a deer caught in headlights, Sunday smooths her hair back from flushed skin before yanking the hem of her dress further down her thighs. “It’s fine.”
In this moment, I hate Luna Jackson-Evans. I hate her for drilling into my head how unacceptablefineis. Because now the word bounces around up there, ringing in my ear, thoroughly tormenting me. And even though we recover remarkably quickly with only marginal residual awkwardness—I order a whiskey to help, she gets another round of wings—that fucking word never shuts up.
22
SUNDAY
