“Why are men like that?” I ask in disbelief. Don’t get me wrong, a man can have a small penis and still be phenomenal in bed. But if they don’t care about their partner’s pleasure, what’s even the point?
I’d say that about a man with a giant dick, too. If you don’t know how to use it, what. Is. The. Point?
Iris shoots me a coy smile, bringing her glass of wine to her lips as her eyes shift to Cooper. “Have you guys,” she pauses, “you know…”
“Oh god no,” I say with a laugh, and she looks as confused as ever.
“Just look at him,” I say, waving my hand in his direction.
“I am, and I gotta say, he’s hot.”
A burning, jealous rage rips through me at the words, and I shove them down within a second. Other people are allowed to find my enemies hot.
Is he even still an enemy, or am I just saying that to feel better about my horrible, really dumb, no good decisions?
“He’s okay,” I agree with a shrug.
“No, he’s really hot. Isn’t he tattooed too?”
“As of,” I check my invisible watch, “a few months ago, yes, he is.”
She giggles. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”
“The man has no impulse control,” I shrug.
“So you guys haven’t had sex?” she quizzes.
I shake my head. “No—pe. And don’t plan on it.”
Even if that’s all I want right now. Am I sweating down there? Wetter than the god damn inner harbor, watching him roll up those sleeves.
“That’s crazy. God, I’m such a slut.”
“No,” I correct immediately. “Slut is a word made up by men to make women feel bad about taking control of their bodies while they become slaves to porn. You’re not a slut for wanting sex.”
A small smile forms on her pouty lips. “You’re cool. I like you.”
And I like her, too.
I down my second drink by the time we’re done talking, and when I turn around, I immediately have to ask for another.
Because one of the other women has her little claws on Cooper.
Another fit of jealousy whooshes through me like a wave, my fuzzy head swimming with ways to torture him for daring to look at her.
Except he’s not.
He’s staring right at me.
Normally, I would never get upset at a woman for hitting on my man. If the man is actually mine, then he’s a good guy. If they don’t know about me, of course, they’d want to get to know him.
The problem is that we’re at a cast cocktail party for a show in which we are allmarried… technically.
Which means that if anyone is flirting with anyone else, it’s knowing full well that they’re taken.
I look over across the room to find Eddy watching intently, and I want to rip the smug, gross smile right off his little lips.
I only realize that I must be burning a damn hole into the side of his face when his eyes meet mine, suddenly lookingveryscared.
