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"Well, you have it, so..."
"Do I?"
I hate myself for asking it the moment the words are past my lips.
"Whenever we're together, you have me and I have you."
His answer should make me smile, maybe even turn me on with memories from when we are indeed together, but instead I find myself looking away from him, back to the window. Because he's right, when we're together, fulfilling the ends of our bargain to one another, yeah, we have each other. But when that time ends, we're just back to being some weird version of friends, or acquaintances, brought together by Sophie and Law. Nothing more. I hide the hurt and confusion filling me the best I can by asking another question.
"So how often do you grocery shop, then?"
He chuckles. "Well, I don't. I have a maid who shops for me three times a week." I give him an exasperated look and he grins. "What? I never said I did it myself. But now that I know how turned on you'd get if you saw me in the aisle, I might just come to your grocery store sometime soon."
"I am immune to your sexiness now."
"Is that right?"
I nod. He licks his lips and moves his hand from the steering wheel, placing it on my thigh. I release a shaky breath as quietly as possible from the heat of his hand on me. It feels like I don't have on pants, like nothing separates his skin from mine. He moves his hand higher, and I grip the door handle, refusing to give him the reaction he's looking for. Higher, higher, and moving more between my thighs until his pinky is brushing against my pussy. I can feel how wet I am, and I'm sure he can too. His growing smirk tells me so.
His hand moves until three of his fingers are pressing against me. A breathy sigh leaves me at the worst time, right as he reaches a red light, leaving him free to look over at me. I struggleto keep my eyes open as he strokes me, struggle not to clench my thighs to make him rub me harder, struggle not to lose control.
Then the bastard leans over, brings his lips to my neck. He leaves a trail of the barest of kisses until he reaches my ear.
"Are you... immune, Charlotte?" he whispers.
A treacherous moan escapes me when he captures my earlobe between his teeth, and he chuckles.
"Maybe not," he insists, rubbing his fingers faster, harder. "I'm sure if you speak, I can tell from your voice. Gimme those pretty words, Char."
"Asshole," I say shakily through quivering lips.
He throws his head back with laughter, taking his hand away from me. I mourn the loss immediately. His hand goes right back to the steering wheel, like I can't still feel the heat of it between my thighs.
“Not so immune, then, huh?"
"You cheated." I scoff, rubbing my thighs together.
"Ah, the loser's anthem. But when you say that with so much desire in your voice, who can hate to hear it?"
He makes a left and then we're on a cul-de-sac, with only one house ahead of us.
"We're here," he says.
"Well excuse the hell out of me."
He chuckles as we pull into his driveway. I look up at his house as he parks. It's huge, far too much house for one person. That thought sends an unexpected, and yet, red hot wave of anger through me, just wondering if he's had other women here, fucked other women here, made other women breakfast here.
"Stop it," I murmur to myself as he gets out of the car.
He walks around to my side and opens the door, extending his hand to help me out. We walk up the stone pathway to the double doors and he opens the one on the right, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him. It's completely open, so while I should be paying attention to the dark furniture in the living room, the huge TV mounted on the wall, the colorful paintings, or maybe the chandelier hanging over the entryway, my eyes instead drift to the kitchen. The island is easily the biggest I've ever seen, with tall stools around one side of it. There're two ovens, an eight-top stove, and a refrigerator with freaking see-through doors.
"That is the most beautiful kitchen I have ever seen," I compliment.
"As a chef, that is one of the nicest things I've ever heard. But..." He leans in, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "Just wait until you see the pantry."
"Show me. Now." I demand.
He chuckles as we walk through the open floor, into the kitchen. In between the refrigerator and long table are a series of doors. He opens the middle ones, and I look inside only to realize they're not cabinets, but a large, deep, walk-in pantry.
