“What?”
“When you get mad at me again, don’t ever withhold sex or baked goods.”
“WhenI get mad at you again?” I asked.
“It’s inevitable.”
“You’re probably right.” I smiled.
We were on the couch, Slash on one end and me at the other. My sock-clad feet were in his lap, and he had one hand resting on my ankle.
“You believe me, yeah? About what I said?”
“I believe you.” I began to giggle.
He looked at me, a frown marring his brow. “What?”
I giggled harder.
“What?” he demanded again.
“You basically yelled it at me,” I gasped.
He chuckled and rubbed his jaw. “You were really going to do it, weren’t you?”
“Do what?”
“Leave.”
I nodded.
“I like that about you.”
“What? My willingness to walk out the door?”
“No. You won’t put up with less than what you deserve. Too many people settle.”
He pulled off one of my socks.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Giving you a foot rub.”
I wiggled my toes at him in excitement.
“It was when you spat rules back at me,” he said, digging his thumb into my arch.
“What?”
“When I knew that you’d be trouble.”
I nearly purred as he rubbed my foot. “Keep doing that.”
My eyes were drifting closed, and I was lulled into a state of supreme relaxation.
“Why is your delivery van outside the house?” he asked.
I opened my eyes and raised a brow. “Duke didn’t tell you?”