“What was our bet?”
“Ten seconds to make me come.”
“And did you? Speak up, Jailbait. Yes or no?”
He knew very well she had. He was painting her ass with the evidence. “Yes, but—”
“No buts.” He slapped hers, hard enough to suggest she hadn’t cornered the market on frustration, and stepped away. “I won. Get dressed.”
Chapter Seven
Booker walked out of her bedroom, parked himself by her front window, and dragged a hand through his hair hard enough to make his scalp sting. The pain didn’t much distract from the real agony centered much lower, but it was the best he could manage at the moment, short of banging his head against a wall. If his hard-on didn’t subside soon he might break down and try blunt head trauma.
A cautious breath brought some oxygen to his deprived b
rain, and a small measure of equilibrium followed. Enough to silently acknowledge the initial five minutes of his first date with Lauralie Peterson qualified as an exercise in self-torture. He should have expected as much. She came with lots of warning labels, most of which she’d proudly applied herself. He’d never mistaken her for a gentle soul.
While he appreciated her complexities, tonight’s behavior wasn’t especially difficult to interpret. She’d attempted to hijack control of the evening. Why remained a mystery, but she hadn’t opened her door wearing nothing but underwear to initiate a conversation about tonight’s plans—a conversation he would have been perfectly happy to have, for the record—she’d done it to initiate a power struggle. Something had set her off, and instead of discussing it with him she’d resorted to the tactics experience had taught her were most likely to result in her getting her way.
No matter how much it killed him to resist, he had to. If he gave in to the tactic, even over something as inconsequential in the grand scheme of things as whether they went out for dinner tonight, he was just like any other guy she’d known. Fools who settled for her body instead of trying to figure out what was going on in her mind. She’d lose respect for him—as well she should—and he’d lose respect for himself. They both deserved better.
The knowledge helped keep his less reasoned instincts in check—the ones picturing her bent over the demure white sofa with her hips lifted high and his cock buried in the welcoming heat between her thighs.
The ding of his phone signaling an incoming text also helped get those rampant instincts under control, especially when he pulled it out and saw Aaron’s name on the screen.
Favor. Call Katie and tell her you need my help tonight. Dinner’s on me.
Why do I need your help?
The reason doesn’t matter. Make some shit up…you need my help buying shoes for the wedding.
Shoe shopping? WTF? Should we get pedicures first?
Bloody buggering hell, just give her a reason, or I’m stuck having dinner with the ice queen.
Was that some sort of British slang? Dinner with the ice queen?
I’m busy.
Stop wanking.
That bit of slang he recognized.
Fuck off, pervert. I’m taking Lauralie to dinner.
Ah. So you’re wanking off later.
The insulting prediction made him smile.
Exactly.
Going to the pub near her place?
He knew where this was heading.
Don’t even think about it. Come anywhere near Delaney’s, I’ll have you arrested and deported.
Untwist your knickers. I won’t be there.