Ask me how old I was when I lost my virginity." The words bring me up short. "What?" "Ask me,” he repeats, low and hard. The look in his eyes is a dare, and I’m not sure I should take it. "How old were you?" I ask, searching his eyes. I think I must be expecting some terrible boast. Wicker Ashby would probably do that–flaunt around the fact that he was banging high school bimbos left and right. Or maybe he’d brag about waiting for the right one. The perfect set of tits. The ideal lay. What I’m not expecting is the cold, sharp smirk. And I’m definitely not expecting his answer. "I was ten." I
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