“Right...” He flips a page. “Did I get to the part where he cums in her mouth yet?”
“Yes.” I stuff a waffle into my mouth.
“No, I didn’t.” He laughs and sits next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s pick up right there, shall we?” He clears his throat and reads. “The tip of his dick tasted salty and sweet. No, it was sweet and salty. Like a burnt M&M.”
“Really though?”
“Yes. Really though. This is one of my all-time favorite books.” He slides his reading glasses over his eyes. “I wasn’t sure what to do next. His c**k was so big, and my pu**y was so small....
***
At seven thirty, I look myself over in the bedroom’s wall-length mirror.
My jet black hair is falling in loose ringlets over my shoulders, and the plum dress is hugging my small curves perfectly.
I can’t imagine where he’s taking me in this type of weather, and I’m hoping he’s smart enough to know that we shouldn’t be going out at all.
Maybe we’ll just sit in front of his fireplace and drink...
“Paris?” Blake knocks on my door, and I immediately open it.
“You’re wearing a tuxedo?” I try not to stare at him too hard. I swear there’s nothing that he doesn’t look good in.
He doesn’t answer my question. He looks me up and down and gently trails his fingers against my exposed collarbone. “You look beautiful, Paris.”
“Beautiful? That must be a new—”
He cuts me off with a kiss and pulls me close. Not letting me catch my breath, he whispers, “I’m being serious...You’re f**king stunning.”
I nod, unable to say the words “Thank you,” because he can’t seem to stop kissing me.
When he finally lets me go, he simply stares at me—looking as if he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.
He simply takes my hand and leads me into his private library, and then up a long flight of side stairs that I’ve never noticed before.
When we reach the top, he opens a metal door and ushers me inside of what appears to be an indoor garden. The room is enclosed in plated glass; ivies are artfully crawling up the walls, and there are rows and rows of roses and tulips growing in beautiful clear cases.
On the other side of the room is a white clothed table set for two, and a shiny silver speaker that’s playing soft music.
He walks me over to it and pulls out my chair. “Have a seat.”
After he pushes me closer to the table, he sits across from me. “Do you eat steak?”
I shake my head.
“I thought so.” He motions for me to open the silver covered platter in front of me. “It’s chicken parmesan and pasta salad.”
My mouth waters as I look over the food. “Why didn’t you tell me this room was up here before?”
“It didn’t cross my mind until yesterday.”
“Is this where you normally take your dates when they come over? When the weather is better do you f**k them against the windows for all of your neighbors to see?”
He says nothing. He just looks at me with his eyebrow raised.
“I was just joking...I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Still nothing.
“Blake?” I put my fork down. “I really didn’t mean anything by that. I was just—”
“What do I have to do to get you to stay with me for another week?” He cuts me off. “Name it.”
“What?”
“I want you to stay with me for another week. How can I make that happen?”
“Um...” I feel butterflies fluttering in my chest.
He reaches over the table and puts his hand over mine, waiting for a response.
“Why would you want me to stay?”
“You’re the first company I’ve had at my house for this long in years.” He sighs. “I also happen to like you and your smart-ass mouth, and I want to spend more time with you. I’ll pay for your new flight ticket if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I’m not sure what to say. I would’ve never expected him to say something like this.
I mean, I’ve really enjoyed his company too, and I feel like his playfulness is something that I’ve never experienced with anyone else, but staying? If I agreed to another week, I’d never want to leave, and I’d probably start fantasizing about a relationship that’ll be doomed from the start.
“Why would it be doomed from the start?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“You said if you stayed with me, you’d start fantasizing about a relationship that would be doomed from the start. What makes you think that?”
I gasp. “I was thinking that. I didn’t mean to say it aloud.”
“Well, you did.” He stands—still holding onto my hand, and pulls his chair next to me. “Why do you think that?”
“Besides the obvious fact that I literally just met you, and I just got out of a relationship?”
“It was a dead relationship. Those types don’t count.”
“How would you know?”
“Divorce clients.” He smiles and presses his forehead against mine. “I can do long-distance...Or you can move.”
“I just met you last week!”