“For how long?” I ask, wanting to see if she’ll tell me.
She waves a hand through the air. “What is time anyway? I know I’ll love you forever.”
Smart woman. No wonder I am fucking smitten with her.
Slipping from my arms, she plays some music through the speaker, something soulful, and she sips from her glass. “Do you know pigeon blood most resembles human blood?”
I spread myself on the sofa and cock my head. “And we need pigeon blood for what exactly?”
“But now we can use synthetic blood,” she babbles, her nervousness so damn cute. “It’s just as good. Women have faked their virginity since forever…they used pigeon blood. Do you think a man could distinguish?”
I grip the arm of the sofa, and reaching for my glass, toss back half, the hard liquid doing nothing to calm me down. She is not implying what I think she is? Oh, she is. Who am I fuckingkidding? It takes immense willpower to keep my facial features neutral.
The more she drinks, the more talkative she gets. Her brows furrow into a cute frown. “I’ve heard the whole hymen thing is a fallacy. Every woman has a more or less elastic vagina. Not everyone bleeds. Apparently, that’s also a fallacy. I did, but would you have noticed the difference?”
“Why do you want to fake your virginity? No need, baby. I was the one taking it.” I wink at her.
Leaning back, I twirl the glass in my hand, the contents sloshing just like my control.
She rolls her eyes, empties her scotch, and places the empty glass down.
Her eyes appear glassy and unfocused. “My family is big on that. Are you?”
I tap the sofa’s arm, pondering for a moment. “If I were to choose, I’d prefer to be your last. It’s irrelevant, though. I was your first. I will be your last. It wouldn’t have mattered how many there had been before me. They wouldn’t be alive to tell. And sure as fuck no one will come after me.”
“So cocky.”
I jerk my chin at her. “How would that whole pigeon-blood thing work?”
Her eyes narrow in deep thought. “It would need a lot of dexterity. There’s also surgery.”
It takes enormous willpower to stay seated and give her some pretense of distance, but I need her to feel safe enough to open up. “Fuck if you’re getting surgery.”
“It’s just a hypothetical thing. My sister’s best friend is an author. A very famous one, and we were researching for a character. I am curious about a male perspective.”
She’s so full of shit, I could burst into laughter. Fuck, if she isn’t my match in everything. I might be the king of deception, but she’s my equal, the queen of pretense.
I am so proud of her.
“Hmm, let me reflect on taking your virginity for a second time,” I groan.
“It’s not about me,” she huffs.
“One time was enough. I prefer to give you pleasure than cause you discomfort, and we’ve been fucking a lot, and you still struggle to take me.”
She tilts her head. “So when do you think the pigeon blood should come out?”
“When do you think? I would be too overcome with pleasure to care about fucking blood,” I say, voice taking on a dark edge.
She giggles. “You’re inserting yourself into my hypothetical question.”
It is as hypothetical as I am truthful.
I can see her carrying a blood vial on our wedding night. She might be a soft kitten, but I think my deception will bring out the worst in her, and she will develop the claws of a tigress ready to rip through my flesh. If someone draws blood on that night, it will be mine.
“Okay, so I think after the first thrust. I would just spill it between my thighs.”
“What about the vial?” I ask, gulping some scotch before slamming the glass on the coffee table. The smooth, smoky taste does nothing to ease me. Even hypothetically thinking about her with someone else puts me in a murderous mood.
