How often do you think about fucking me?”
I can’t begin to describe the noise I made when she asked her last question. My body tenses, and blood flows through me, straight to my cock. I push and push the thoughts away, but the mental images of Nora straddling me are so hard to battle.
“I’ve only had sex with one person. I’m sure you can guess who that is. I met Dakota when I was just a kid. She was my next-door neighbor . . . And I’m skipping the last question.”
She shoots me a dirty look. Dirty as in pissed off, not as in she wants to rip my clothes off.
“Hmm . . .” Nora hums, and taps her index finger on her lips.
I clear my throat and pray that my jeans can hide what I’m thinking.
“My turn.” I can hear the change in my voice. It’s thick with longing and need, and I really just want to push her soft body against the counter and lift her shirt over her head and taste her skin.
I ask the first questions that pop into my head without screening them. “How did you meet your last boyfriend? Does it bother you that I’ve only slept with Dakota? And how often do you think about fucking me?”
Her eyes dart away from mine, and she carries the mixing bowl to the sink and turns on the water. “I met him through my parents. My dad has some business with his. Yes, it bothers me like you wouldn’t believe. I think about fucking you nearly every minute of every day.”
My voice gets caught in my throat, and I can’t breathe. My stomach flutters like a thousand angry moths are swarming inside me.
I don’t know what to say to Nora, the twenty-five-year-old woman who for some reason wants to fuck me. Her words hit every nerve in my body, and I’m not sure I could actually handle her. Inside my head, she’s already naked, spread out on my bed and calling for me.
Gah, she actually wants me. And thinks about fucking me. And has no problem telling me. I’m so out of my league here, yet my fingers are twitching, wanting to touch her.
“Oh,” I say. I ball my hands into fists to keep them from reaching for her.
Nora doesn’t look at me, and I don’t trust what my body would do if she turned around. She washes the bowl and pats it dry with a kitchen towel.
“My turn. Do you trust me? What’s your favorite TV show? And . . .” She tilts her head back and forth, thinking. “If Dakota came here right now and begged for you to take her back, would you?”
Why did I create this stupid game, anyway?
Instead of calling it quits, I suck it up and continue with the next round of answers. “I do. I don’t know if I should, but I do trust you. My favorite TV show is Arrested Development. And no, I don’t think I would.”
Nora finally turns around to look at me. After making brief eye contact, she looks to the floor quickly. “Don’t think you would? Or wouldn’t? You don’t sound very sure.”
I grab a rag from the counter to busy my nervous hands. “I wouldn’t.”
Nora nods and stands still, leaning her back on the counter next to the fridge. I jump into the next set of questions, intentionally keeping my body a few feet away from hers.
“Do you trust me?” I steal her question and she notices, regarding me with an eye roll. “Did your last relationship end on a good note or a bad one? And lastly, do you have feelings for me? Beyond sexual attraction?”
Nora’s fingers tug at the loose pieces of her braid. Her long, almond-shaped fingernails are painted black, and she has flour dusted on her knuckles. “I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else in the entire world the way I trust you, and that frightens me, because I barely know you—and you don’t know me at all.”
I want to interrupt her and tell her that I know her better than she thinks. I want to tell her that I’m going to know her even better than she can fathom. I’m going to know her better than she knows herself, and I’m willing to play this game every day until I do.