I raise an eyebrow. “If you think I’m going to be some docile, agreeable girlfriend, you’re—” Before I can finish, an invisible hand pushes me forward into Des’s arms. He still has that smug-ass smile on his face. “Mate is the correct term,” he says, his voice pitched seductively low. “I’m not your”—he makes a face—“boyfriend. I’m neither a boy nor particularly friendly.” He ends his little speech by kissing me on the nose.
