“Fast and quick,” I tell him.
Whiskey drags his teeth over his bottom lip, not answering me, then goes back to his food. I play with mine, not sure what else to say to him. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about what happened that night.
“How was your day?” he asks finally after he finishes. A glass of wine comes to his lips, and he looks at me over the brim.
“Is this the game we’re playing?” I ask him. “You pretend like this is normal and we’re friends? Or what?” My anger’s rising.
“It’s easier this way, don’t you think?”
“Easier for you, or me?” I question him.
“You. It’s easier for you.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” I push the plate away. “We are getting married tomorrow, Whiskey. Is this what the next ten or so months is going to look like for me?”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“I don’t want this. I want my own house. I don’t want the first man I live with to only be with me because he wants something from me.”
“All men will want something from you. I’m just upfront about it.”
“Most don’t have a contract and pretend to the world that their marriage is real, when it’s not.”
Whiskey shakes his head and gets up. “I’m ending this conversation. Now!” He walks away, and I reach for my glass and throw it near his head. He stops, dropping his plate into the sink. I hear it crack as he turns around to face me.
“No, I’m ending it,” I say, smiling as I walk away.
He doesn’t let me get too far before he comes up behind me. Whiskey’s hand grabs my wrist and he turns me around. “Ending what exactly?” He presses up against me, and I want to press back and bite his lip at the same time.
“This,” I say, pushing on him by accident because I can’t move my hands.
Whiskey’s head drops into the crook of my neck. “You’ve been holding my hand every night in your sleep.” My spine straightens at his words. “And when you do, your snoring is lighter. Be careful, rich girl, your head may not like me, but some other parts of you most certainly do.” He pushes off and beats me into the bedroom.
Taking a few deep breaths, I follow him in. “Who were you dreaming about, Whiskey? What spooked you so bad?”
“My father hanging from my garage ceiling.”
I didn’t expect him to answer. And his words hurt. I can feel the pain even if he doesn’t want to show it to me.
“So, you’re an asshole to me for what happened back then?”
“Yes, because you’re getting too close too soon. Don’t deny it, either.” He starts undressing.
“Will you stop fucking getting naked around me?”
“I wonder what your father would say hearing you speak like that?” Running my fingers through my hair, I am trying to not pull it out.
“I don’t care what he would say, I’m speaking to you.”
My cell starts ringing. I ignore it.
“But you do care, don’t you? This is why you were the perfect target.”
“Target?” I yell at him. “Is that why you picked me? To be your target?” I walk closer to him. His shirt is now off and in his hands.
“Rich girl, let’s stop. This is going to go nowhere. You and me… it’s just a means to an end.”
“What end?” I yell.
Whiskey goes to speak, then shakes his head. Undoing his pants, he takes them off and walks into the shower.
Walking out, I go to the kitchen, grab a box of something from the pantry, then walk back into the bedroom. Quickly stepping into the en suite and to where the back of his head would be located, and the water washing over him, I pull the washing basket over and stand on it. Then I reach over the top and drop the contents of the flour all over him. It goes in his mouth, covers his eyes, and when he opens them, I see the mistake I have made by the amount of anger flashing in them. He reaches for me before I can move and pulls me down from the basket, so I’m now on his body and under the water.
“You are on my last nerve, rich girl. I don’t have patience for this shit.” The flour falls and sticks to his face. It takes everything in me to not laugh out loud. “Oh, you find this funny, do you?” He pushes against me, his cock’s hard, and my skirt’s high near my ass when he slides me down. Then I feel him, and the only thing separating us is my flimsy G-string.
My mouth closes, and my smile instantly vanishes.
“Tell me you want me, rich girl? I can ease that ache.” I don’t speak. “I won’t even make you beg for it.” He runs his hand up my shirt. The water washes over my face and stops me from speaking. He leans in and kisses my neck ever so softly. “Tell me, rich girl?”