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Terrible, terrible taste in women.
Sticking to the same testimony he gave, I say slowly, “I thought you would be…a good hate fuck.”
Laughter bursts out of him, making me bite my lips together to keep in my own.
“I thought you didn’t joke.”
“I don’t,” I tell him at the same time my phone’s alarm goes off, pulsing through the pouch on my stomach. Four hours felt like four minutes.
Four hourswith himfelt like four minutes.
“Well?” he questions, more serious now. “Was I?”
“You were okay.”
“Just okay?” He rears back, visibly wounded. “Where the fuck did you get just okay from? You came twice.”
An internalized sigh ripples through my chest, inflating it to capacity. The male ego is more fragile than a bubble, I swear to God.
“Two orgasms is not the ceiling, rook. It’s the bare minimum.” Itshouldbe the bare minimum but Reece is the only man I’ve met willing to accept guidance, so I’m taking a few liberties with his tutelage—for his benefit and any woman he sleeps with from here on out.
My chest deflates, leaving it feeling achy.
“I need to get home,” I say suddenly, accurately. I do need to go. It’s been four hours since I left, and the officer patrolling my house could wake up any time now.
Every night after work, I’ve been taking Officer Manning a paczki—Polish doughnut—I get from a local bakery before sprinkling the top with a mixture of sleeping powder and powdered sugar, just enough to make him sleepy without actually causing him to fall asleep. Tonight, I handed him one with enough to knock him out while making an off-handed comment about him looking tired. When he wakes up from his impromptu nap, he’ll worry at first before eventually recalling my earlier assessment.Maybe he really was tired.Then tomorrow, when I give him another one, but without any sleeping powder, I’ll tell him he looks better, well-rested, and he’ll forgive himself for sleeping on the job, concluding it must be true, he did need that nap.
Since some of the reviews I read on the product said the deep sleep only lasted four hours, I need to return before he gets the chance to come out of it and notice me driving back up my driveway.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
I don’t wait for Reece as I shrug out of his hold to return to his black sedan.
“What’s the ceiling?” he calls out, following close behind me.
Hidden from his view, I release a smile, feeling it spread to the rest of my body—a phenomenon I didn’t know was possible—and say, “There isn’t one.”
There’s a reason women can climax more than men. We deserve it.
Reece
Next to Lex’s Range Rover, I keep my finger on the lock button, pressing it every time she hits the unlock button, stretching my time with her by only seconds. They’re seconds I need though. The first time I tried this, we had a stolen car to get rid of. Now, we don’t.
“There’s a skylight in my apartment,” I say.
Lex gives me a thoughtful look that launches my hopes into outer fucking space. She’s considering.
I tell her, “We can see the moon through it,” even though I have no idea if that’s true. It’s barely visible right now. The snow already stopped, but it’s still pretty overcast.
“Why would that interest me?”
“Because you’re a lunatic.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your moon tattoo. Originally, lunatic just meant moonstruck, but since so much crazy shit happens during full moons, the term took on worse and worse implications over time until eventually it had nothing to do with the moon at all. At its core though, lunatic still means someone affected by the moon. Because bodies are made up of over fifty percent water, technically we’re all lunatics, most females even more so if their cycle syncs up with the moon’s.”
