I huff out a breath and stare up at the ceiling. Not enough light to see if there are any cracks in here. “Years of being lectured about being a good girl.”
“Youarea good girl, Sloane. And good girls get to be happy.”
“It feels like?—”
I’m lying here, in the dark, my pussy hot and bothered, my breasts heavy and aching, a sexy bad boy between my legs, hardfor me, and I’m ruining the mood.
He brushes his thumb over my hip, just above my panties. “It feels like what?”
“Like Patrick breaking into my house was my punishment for lying to my grandmother about you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Why am I like this?
Why do I say the wrong thing at the wrong time?
Why can’t I just enjoy a good thing?
He’s not saying anything.
Just lying there.
Probably watching me.
Thinking I have issues.
“Never mind. Forget I said that. I?—”
“Sloane.”
“What?”
“Having met your grandmother, the only thing I can feel about you telling her I was your boyfriend is honored. You should’ve picked someone hotter.”
I lift my head and stare at him.
Even in the dim light, I can tell he’s not smiling.
Not joking.
Not digging for compliments.
“Are you for real right now?”
“Yes.”
I snort. “There is no one hotter.”
And then I hear what I just said, and my entire body flushes.
“I—I don’t date,” I stammer. “I can recognize that some men—like you—are hot and still not want to date anyone.”
His teeth flash.
He’s smilingnow.
“Good. Show me how you like to touch yourself.”
