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“I do.” His face lights up as he puts two and two together. “Ah, you looked me up?”
I scrunch my face up and clench my eyes shut.
“And you found nothing out?” He confirms my findings. Or lack of.
I throw my arms into the air. “You have one private social media account and nothing else. You could be a serial killer!” I yell a little too loudly.
“I don’t like social media.”
“That’s weird,” I huff.
“But also smart. You are very public. If I was clever enough, I could probably pinpoint when you ovulate next. And if there is a serial killer on the loose, he’ll come for you first before me, especially if you keep ‘checking in’ to places.”
My eyes bug out. “What?” I exclaim. I’m going to stop ‘checking in’ from now on.
“I like my privacy.”
“You only have a private Instagram account; you follow three people, and no one follows you.” I still can’t believe it.
“I don’t use it to post, just to find out when the latest sneakers I want are going on release.” He winks teasingly. “But we have a family group chat. Would you like to see?” He reaches for his phone.
“I don’t need to see that.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that how you share your photos of your adventures? Hidden away within a private group chat?”
“Yes. Who the hell is interested in seeing my photos? Nobody cares about the food I eat. I fucking don’t care what other people are eating. Why would they care about my food? And I don’t see the point of taking photos of your food or the sunset, just enjoy the moment. Take a photo and store it away so you can look at it when you’re an old man and reminisce about the good times. And what’s with the uploading over one hundred photos of ‘look how amazing our family is’ or ‘oh my God, look at us all on holiday; we are having a much better time than you, while you sit at home in your miserable lives’ when in fact, when they are at home, the husband and wife fight all the time, go on fancy holidays every year to keep up with The Joneses—whoever the Joneses are—and in reality, they are in debt up to their eyeballs because they can’t actually afford the car in their drive but the prick next door who works in finance has one so they need one that goes faster than his. Fuck that. Nope, not for me. My friends show me this shit from time to time. It’s like people now have this desperate need to be liked.”
“Wow. Your car and you match. I poked the angry bear.” I cover my mouth to hide my giggle that’s now desperately trying to break free from my chest. Everything he said is true though, all of it. I agree. But he turned into a grumpy old man for a moment there.
“Hell, you know what I just realized?” he says with a serious face.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve turned into my father. It’s official.”
I can’t hold it in any longer and burst into a fit of giggles.
He leans over me and reaches for my door handle. “Stop giggling or get out, Ms. West. If there is any more of that, I will have to put you over my knee and spank you.”
My giggle stops dead and I look down to meet his eyes, now level with my breasts.
He reaches up and cups my face, then runs his thumb back and forth across my bottom lip. I’m tempted to open my mouth and suck his finger into my mouth. I don’t, but I want to. Badly.
So, so bad. And I want him to keep on touching me.
His eyes grow darker, making them look like black diamonds. “Oh, is that how it is now? You like the sound of that, Violet?”
I don’t deny it and nod my head.
“Is that not more of a third or fourth date experience?”
“First,” I whisper.
He sucks in a breath and leans back.
Why didn’t he take that opportunity to kiss me? He said he wanted to kiss me earlier.
He groans, rearranging his thick length that’s now visible through his jeans. “Violet West, I think your lush and tempting mouth just became a massive problem. I’m trying to be good for you.”
“I don’t need you to be good for me.” I’m almost panting.
