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Does he not like guac or is he not willing to pay the extra money? A question for the ages.
I motion to my body and say in the voice of the old lady from Titanic, “It’s been eighty-four years since these breasts have been touched.”
“If I found the right woman, I’d be far more interested in fucking her against every surface of my house rather than answering monotonous emails or buying a business partner a drink.”
That was . . . consuming. Something to remember—when he commands a room, commands my attention, commands my every move, I can see myself drowning in his presence. There’s no doubt about that.
“He started it,” I say. “He came in ripe with the attitude. What was I supposed to do? Just sit back and take it? Hell no. He makes my life difficult? I’ll do the same.”
Blinks. Swallows. Nearly chokes on own saliva.
“Say it right now that you don’t want this and I’ll go back to eating my salad. If not, I’m going to eat you.”
