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"That's probably the last thing I would call you." I chuckle, reaching for one of the trays.
"What would you call me?"
I raise my eyes from the plate of baked chicken, potatoes gratin, and green beans to look at Law.
"I would call you intense, demanding, domineering, intriguing..." My eyes go over him, his frame sitting lazily in the chair, comfortable under my gaze, smirking when I meet his eyes again. "Sexy, calculating, confident bordering on cocky."
Cocky?" He chuckles. "Hardly." I arch a brow and he continues, "Maybe a little arrogant. Not cocky, though."
"The difference being?"
"Arrogant means I think highly of myself. Cocky means I'm a dick."
"And you're not?"
"I would sure as hell hope not."
He begins eating his own food and there's silence between us, the sound of forks hitting plates the only sound. But in my head, my thoughts are screaming with their many questions. I'm so confused; what does this mean, why is he doing all of this, what changed between our last Saturday together and now?
"Stop thinking so much," he says.
"I can't really help it. What is this?"
"What do you want it to be?"
"You have a real habit of answering questions with questions."
"I know." Then he arches a brow, waiting for my answer.
"I don't know what I want this to be, because I never thought of anything beyond our Saturdays together. I mean, I've thought about it, but not in any real way."
His brows furrow. "Not in any real way. What does that mean?"
God, why is he asking me all of this? I don't know how to answer without giving too much of myself away. And I don't feel like it's safe to give any of myself away. These candles and this dinner don't negate the very real fact that I've been paid by Law for three months of my time, of my body. That hasn't changed, so I have to believe anything I want beyond that is nothing but a fantasy in my mind. Something that will never be real. Otherwise, I'll end up getting my heart broken in three months.
"It means I'm your whore, and I can't really see beyond that," I finally answer.
He hums, returning to his food. I guess that conversation is over, making me think he agrees with what I said. But why does it make me so sad?
"What did you have planned for tonight, if you hadn't come here?" he asks after a while.
"Hmm, order some take-out. Watch a movie that I've seen a hundred times so I could fall asleep to it."
He tilts his head. "That's all?"
"Yes. What did you expect me to say?"
He shrugs. "Maybe that your fingers would have found their way to your pussy because you were remembering our times together."
Well, that has heat rushing right to the area he just mentioned. I swallow, determined not to let him throw me off-kilter this time.
"No. That was what I did last night."
His smirk is instant. He puts his fork down, pushing his chair back some so he can, very pointedly, rub against his obvious erection through his pants.
"And what were you thinking of while you fingered yourself?"
"Your mouth on me."
