“You’re afraid of me,” I point out, refusing to answer her obvious question. Of course, I think it’s funny. I had my fingers buried inside of her less than two hours ago, and now she’s looking for an item to smash against my head. “I’m not afraid of you.” She stomps her foot, still refusing to move from her spot in the foyer. “Then come closer,” I challenge. Stabbing a finger toward the ground, she says, “This is my house.” “I thought we already cleared up that this was my house,” I point out uselessly, because it doesn't matter either way. I just want to irritate her as much as she irritates
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