“But you’d tell your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one. I told you I’m single.”
He rolled his eyes. “Your hypothetical boyfriend. If you had one. Would you tell him?”
“Of course. Keeping secrets in a relationship doesn’t create a very stable foundation.”
Eamon put both hands on my shoulders and met my eyes, and suddenly, I couldn’t think about anything except the heat of his touch seeping through my shirt. His grip was firm but gentle, possessive without being demanding, and it made my knees feel suspiciously weak. I had to fight the urge to lean into that touch, to let him anchor me when everything else in my life felt like it was spinning out of control. Those green eyes held mine with such focus that I felt like he could see straight through to my soul.
“I’m your boyfriend, darling. Until further notice, I’myour other half. So yes, you should talk to me about your sex toys.”
“But… But it’s not real. You’re not actually my boyfriend!” I sputtered.
“And if you constantly tell yourself that and keep your distance, do you really think you’ll be able to sell our relationship when it matters? That you’ll play your part convincingly when right now, you turn red as a tomato when I even ask you about sex?”
I stared at him. Why did what he was saying actually make sense? It felt like a ploy on some level, like a trick designed to get me to lower my guard and give him what he wanted. But no matter how I looked at it, how I turned it over in my brain and studied every angle, examined it from every possible perspective, his logic was absolutely, frustratingly sound.
If I kept treating him like a stranger, if I kept blushing and stammering and acting like a virgin schoolboy every time he so much as mentioned sex, how the hell was I supposed to convince anyone that we were actually together? That we were comfortable enough with each other to share a bed and a life?
The worst part was that he was right about me being tense. I was wound tighter than a spring, jumping at shadows and overanalyzing every word that came out of his mouth. And if I couldn’t relax around him when it was just the two of us in my house, how was I supposed to sell this charade to people who actually knew me?
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
“Okay,” I finally said.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, you can ask me about my…personal stuff. My sex toys, okay,” I said when he rolled his eyes. “Yes. I do have a whole drawer full of them. Are you happy now?”
“Which one’s your favorite?”
Was he testing me? Maybe, but if so, I had given him plenty of reason to doubt my ability to play this part convincingly. And if I refused to answer now, if I clammed up and got all red-faced again, he’d only go right back to calling me a prim maiden. Which, for the record, I absolutely wasn’t. I’d had my share of one-night stands and casual hookups over the years. I just wasn’t used to discussing the intimate details of my sex life with complete strangers in my hallway like we were talking about the weather.
Though, come to think of it, I had no issues actually hooking up with guys I didn’t know. I’d taken men home from bars after knowing them for all of two hours, had fooled around with tourists passing through town. Hell, I’d even had a few app hookups where conversation was minimal and clothes came off fast. So why was talking about sex toys with Eamon so much harder than actually having sex with strangers?
Maybe it was because of Eamon himself? Because this felt different somehow, more personal despite being fake? I had no clue, and that uncertainty was almost as unsettling as everything else that had happened today.
Still, I looked him straight in those gorgeous green eyes as I answered, “I have a seven-inch dildo that always hits the spot.”
He whistled between his teeth. “Seven inches, huh? You like ’em big?”
I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “I do. And the benefit of a dildo over the real thing is that a dildo doesn’t lie about its size…and it doesn’t talk.”
He snorted. “Sounds like true love to me.”
“It sure is.”
He grinned, but then sobered and pointed at my bedroom door. “I’d still like to see your room.”
“I told you, it’s a hot mess.”
“I don’t care. I need to know the layout of the house and where the weak spots and vulnerabilities are. That includes your bedroom.”
Right. With a sigh, I walked over and opened the door, cringing at the tower of clothes on my bed. But Eamon walked in and looked around with an almost clinical interest, as if he didn’t even see the mess.
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
A little baffled, I stared at him as he walked out again. That was it? No comments on the mess? I really didn’t understand this man.
