“Kitten, we’re just getting started.”
I want to fire back with something sassy. Let him know that no man talks to me like that. No one would dare but him.
Am I gonna let him play with me for two full days? Am I going to let this continue?
My mind says no. My obligation to the Humane Society says yes. And my pussy? She’s simply howling for more every time this man opens his mouth. Or grins. Or makes eye contact. Walks, breathes, stands, sits. Oh yes, my coochie cannot be trusted any more than a man’s cock can be expected to make sound decisions.
So it’s a good thing I still have control of my mind.
“If this is going to continue, you know what this kind of thing does to a girl,” I say, standing up and glancing around for any sign of cups because I’m truly parched now. I find some plastic 7-Eleven cups in the cabinet and pour myself water from the tap, thanking my lucky stars that the water runs clear because god knows what these pipes are made of.
“No,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder as I return to my perch at the barstool. “What?”
No point in being coy about it. “A girl could catch feelings.”
Crosby plops the wet dishes on a towel to dry on the counter and turns to me. “This a hypothetical girl?”
He takes a step closer to me. What is he doing?
“Yes,” I say. “Hypothetical.”
“But not you, though. You wouldn’t catch feelings for me.”
I am not going to entertain any talk about my feelings. Nope. No way. “No girl should get her feelings involved with a man who’s as mysterious as you are.”
Crosby lifts an eyebrow and takes another step forward. “Since we aren’t talking about you, and this is just hypothetical, I guess it’s okay for me to say that I would not ever catch feelings for a girl anyway.”
I can’t keep my nostrils from flaring. Also, I can’t keep my stomach from tightening with dread. What if I catch feelings and he doesn’t? What if I already have? I mean, I probably haven’t, but what if I have?
“Oh, is that so?”
Crosby is so close now I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. “Yeah. That’s so. So it’s best if girls keep their distance.”
He’s leaning in, much like he was before, one hand propped on the countertop and the rest of him simply surrounding me. God, there’s just too much of him.
“It’s hard for a girl to keep her distance when you can’t seem to stay out of her personal space,” I retort.
“See, that’s where you got it twisted.”
“Twisted?”
He leans in closer, nuzzling my cheek with his nose. “Yep. You’re a twisted kitten. I don’t have feelings for girls. Only women.”
His lips swipe across mine like the brush of a feather. And I’m weak. He tricked me, and I’m weak. He didn’t outright say he had feelings for me but implied that he could.
He’s trying to make me want more, and demand more from him, but he’s not going to succeed.
If he wants me again, he will have to be the aggressor.
No worries there. Crosby’s kiss quickly accelerates from swiping, to teasing, to licking.
Damn my stupid pounding heart. I like kissing him. I like talking to him. I just know I’m not going to like wherever he gets his money from. I am confident that the man—whose arms are lifting me off the barstool and cramming as much of me as he can against his frame — has either dealt drugs or weapons or has killed someone. I’m just sure of it.
But the way he handles me. The way he kisses. I almost do not care what he’s involved in. Have I ever asked myself where and how the affluent families whose sons belong to Zeta Gamma Nu get their money? They probably own companies that exploit workers. Deny healthcare and don’t pay overtime. How is that any better than someone who sells shit on the black market to stay afloat? But isn’t it better than murder? Or human trafficking? How do I know?
I push him away, my conscience winning out. “Tell me you’re not kidnapping people.”
Crosby appears dazed, his swollen lips red and shining with our shared saliva. He then laughs. “What?”