She tilted her head.
"You're so hard right now, it's weeping. You should let me suck it for you." Her tongue peeked out and traced the curve of her plush lips. "You taste good, papi."
I almost groaned.
Breathing hard, my hand shook from the restraint I was holding onto. She had no idea how close she was to the truth. No idea how close I was to snapping. She had looked so pretty on her knees for me—for a split second, I almost let myself entertain it.
Almost.
I swallowed the temptation, exhaling through my nose.
"Enough games." My voice dropped to a colder tone. "Who are you. Real name."
"My name is the one you tracked me down with."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"Where are you from?"
Pause.
"Not Florida."
She picked up a pair of chopsticks, sat bare-assed on the floor in front of the coffee table, and started eating food directly from the container like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn't just been naked between my legs.
Like she hadn't just offered herself to me like currency.
I watched her, my frustration growing with every bite she took. The chopsticks clicked against the cardboard. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her eyes fixed on the food.
I started asking more questions. Where was she born? How long had she been in Florida? Who did she know in Tampa?
One-word answers.
Evasive.
Dodgy.
Not Florida.
A while.
No one.
Finally, I'd had enough.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of her.
She froze.
Chopsticks halfway to her mouth. Eyes wide. The panic was immediate—not the slow dawning of fear, but a flash flood behind her irises.
"Don't send that to Virginia," she said.
Then her eyes went even wider.
