Tiffany watched us, a slight catty expression pinned to her face.
“I shut off the grill, but everything is ready. Steak. Chicken. Tofu. And in the foil, there’s veggies and potatoes. Want to grab the food off the grill, Fisher?”
“Sure thing.” He stood, setting his glass onto the tray.
“Grab the cookie sheet on the counter and set everything on it. Reese can help you.”
I didn’t waste a second before standing and heading into the house behind Fisher.
“Tiffany keeps scowling at me. Do you think she suspects something? I don’t think she likes me,” I said as Fisher grabbed the cookie sheet and the grill tongs.
“I’ve sucked your tits and you came in my mouth today. She probably senses that I’m still craving more of you.”
When I didn’t respond, because my jaw dropped open, out of commission for a few seconds, Fisher turned toward me and smirked.
“Don’t.” He shook his head. “You’re not allowed to act offended anymore. Tits is not a bad word. I gave you the PG version. Really, you should thank me.”
“W-what …” I loosened my scarf. “What’s the adult version?” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we were still alone and out of earshot. “Oral sex?” I whispered.
Fisher rolled his lips together to hide his amusement, but it hid nothing. He was laughing at me. My age. My innocence … or what was left of it.
“What?” I narrowed my eyes.
“Could you be any more clinical?”
“Could you be any more crude?”
“Yes.” He took a step toward me, also eyeing the gathering on the porch behind me. “I could have said I jerked off thinking about biting your nipples and eating you out earlier in the day.”
I did not like the phrase “eating you out.” It made me shudder. I wasn’t an apple. Although, I probably felt like the forbidden fruit to Fisher.
“Did you learn to be so crude? Or is it genetic?”
He shrugged. “It’s the Y chromosome.”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. “I know plenty of men who are not crude and filthy like you.”
“You think you do. Like … Bible Boy. You think his chivalrous hand-holding and sweet peck on the cheek is who he is. It’s not. It’s who he’s been trained to be. But I promise you, after he got home this afternoon, he rubbed one off thinking about you in the most unholy ways. He’s thought about your cunt and your tits so many times.” Fisher brushed past me.
“Don’t say the C word.”
“Too late. I already did.” He opened the storm door and shot the ladies his sexy grin before heading out to the grill.
I followed, adjusting my scarf that covered my whisker burn and my embarrassment. I probably had half the Bible committed to memory, yet I managed to fall in love with the son of Satan.
As Fisher opened the lid to the grill, I sidled up next to him. “Have you ever been to church?”
“Yes. I went to a Presbyterian church every Sunday until my parents could no longer physically pick me up and force me to go.”
“Do you believe in God?”
He set the meat and tofu kabobs onto the cookie sheet. “Why? Are you on a mission to save me?”
Selfishly, no. I was on a mission to save myself. But I wasn’t ready to give up my newest addiction, so I thought God would reward me for making Fisher a little less … extra.
Unfortunately, my religion didn’t believe the way to salvation was through good deeds.
Bummer.
“Because … I’m getting mixed signals. I think you want me to have sex with you, but you also want to do what Jesus would do. Which means I need to marry you to have sex with you, and I’m not marrying you just to have sex with you.” He peered down at me with raised brows and a tilted head as if to make sure I understood him.
I did not.
Fisher was the king of statements that could be interpreted in more than one way. He wasn’t going to marry me and therefore we weren’t having sex? Or he wasn’t going to marry me just for sex, but it was possible he would marry me for sex and other reasons?
“You want to know the funny part … even if it’s not that funny?”
He closed the lid to the grill. “I’m intrigued now. What’s the not-so-funny part?”
“The only thing that stands between virgin me and non-virgin me is you having a condom on you at the right time.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s not my lack of preparedness, it’s just bad sex. Deflowering isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And unless you’re trying to be biblical about it, it’s not a gift. It’s a curse. You are not going to enjoy that moment when some guy’s dick rams into (pun intended) virgin territory. You’ll wince, nearly cry, then fail epically at faking an orgasm. No.” He shook his head. “I’m not having any part of that.”