“She’s twenty-one.”
“Legal and then some. Hell, she’s nearly a cougar. What makes you think I’m looking?”
“Please.” Mercy gave a short laugh. “I practically heard you get a hard-on, watching her.”
Sometimes being predictable sucked. “Guilty as charged. Does your fiancé know you’ve got an obsession with how my dick spends its time?”
“He watches me finger myself to the pictures every night.”
He was grateful she was making jokes. “I knew he had to have at least one redeemable trait for you to love him,” he said.
“I’m serious about Susan.”
“So am I.” He was tired of this conversation. It was a reasonable request, but he didn’t like that Mercy kept pushing it. “I’m not in the market to corrupt someone. If she’s not wicked on her own, let a different pervert pave the path. I suffered enough watching you and me break. But I’ll keep my distance. Cross my heart, hope to die.”
When she winced, he recognized his poor choice of words. It sank heavy in his chest. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I get that. The phrasing hit me hard is all. Old scars. Not as deep as yours, but there.”
He didn’t have a reply for that. He understood exactly what she meant and wasn’t interested in delving into that part of their past. “Now that the dirty work is out of the way”—he forced the cheer into his tone—“show me the goods, Miss Mercy.”