Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I stab a strawberry with my fork. “Would you stop calling me that?”
“Baby? But you loved it last night. Your cock got hard every time I said it.”
I nearly choke but manage to swallow. “That’s different.”
“Different how?”
“It feels gay, okay? Stop it.”
“So me coming deep inside you isn’t gay, but ‘baby’ is?”
“That’s…a physical reaction. It means nothing.”
He sets his cup down, calm but with tension crowding his shoulders.
“I would’ve found your attempts to find excuses adorable under different circumstances, but you need to stop that line of thinking. Is being gay the end of the world? Do you have something against people like my moms?”
“Of course not. I don’t care what others do. More power to them.”
“Then why is it the end of your world?”
“I don’t know. It feels weird.”
“Weird how?”
I shrug, munching another strawberry. “I’m not used to the idea of being fucked. You’re not the one giving up control, so it might have been easier for you to accept the sudden shift in your sexuality, but…”
His gaze softens slightly. “Being fucked is vulnerable, and you’re still uncomfortable with that.”
I lift a shoulder, avoiding his eyes. “Would you identify as gay?”
“For security reasons, I wouldn’t do it publicly. But personally? Sure. I still find women attractive, though, so I’m probably bisexual.”
“Women like Jessica?”
He sighs. “Yes, women like Jessica.”
I stand up and grab the knife, but he slams my hand down. “Sit the fuck down, Carson. Enough.”
“I’m going to fucking stab you.”
“I said. Enough. Cut it out and stop with the impulsive actions.” He presses on my hand as his authoritative voice penetrates my skin. “Let go.”
I glare but release the knife, and he removes his hand as I sit back down. I stuff another strawberry in my mouth to keep from exploding.
Because what the fuck? Since when am I this quick to jump to action?
More importantly, why does the mention of someone else turn me murderous?
“Count to ten,” he says in that same austere tone. “Or, better yet, try having a civil conversation instead of stabbing. I will not stand for these types of tantrums again. Got it?”
Something about his tone and the quiet command does something to me. But I tuck that away. “Are you meeting Jessica again?”
“No. We established exclusivity last night, remember? Or is that too gay for you?”
“But you still find Jessica attractive?”
“Don’t you find other people attractive?”
No.
I pause with the fork near my mouth.
Fuck.
I don’t.
Even before him, I picked girls based on vibes, not attraction. I got off, but not like this. Not like now, where I can’t stop staring at his lips.
I shrug, feigning indifference.
“Who do you find attractive, hmm?” His voice darkens. “Morgan? Cherry?”
“You were the one drooling over Jessica. Stop with the mixed signals.”
“I said that to piss you off.”
“Well, I let Morgan touch me to piss you off.”
He narrows his eyes, and I narrow mine back.
“Lose the attitude, Carson.”
“I’m just mirroring yours, Professor.”
“Carson…”
“Yes, Professor?” I grin, and he exhales sharply, clearly torn between anger and amusement.
We eat in silence for a while, until he stands and rummages around in the living room.
When he returns wearing thick-framed black glasses, my brain kind of short-circuits.
He looks hotter. How is that even possible?
Are people supposed to look even more attractive with glasses or am I just tripping?
Soon, though, he starts reading The Financial Times—gag—hiding his face and the glasses.
“Next time,” I say in an attempt to get his attention, “order strawberry cheesecake.”
“Noted.”
“And granola.”
“Sure.”
“And strawberry protein bars.”
“Will do.”
“You should also consider getting a TV. You know, like normal people.”
He lowers the paper, his glasses amplifying the sharpness in his eyes. “Anything else?”
“I’ll make a list.”
“You’ve been a spoiled brat your whole life, haven’t you?”
“Oh, please, you’re spoiled by your moms, too.” And because I can’t stop staring, I say, “Why haven’t I seen you wear glasses at school? Are they just reading glasses?”
“Yes.” He pulls out a cigarette.
Before he can light it, I snatch it away.
“Now what?” he grumbles.
“I hate the smell. It’s also rude to smoke indoors.”
“Didn’t think you cared about what’s considered rude.”
“I do sometimes.”
Not really. I also don’t care about the smell, but I noticed he doesn’t smoke much. I’ve only seen him do it once in his bath and never on campus, so it’s better he quits.
He folds the newspaper and, unfortunately, removes the glasses. “Anything else you hate? Let’s hear it.”
“You, for instance.”
“I’m well aware. Next?”
“Dogs.”
“Why?”
“I was attacked once. Rabid.”
“Did it scare you?”
“No, it disgusted me.”
“Anything else?”
“French.”
“French?”
“Learned it as a kid, but I hate it now.”
“Fair. It’s overrated.”
“You speak it?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Korean and French. What other languages do you speak?” I know—German and Chinese, but talking to him is different than reading the cold information Nadine sends.
“Some German and Mandarin Chinese.”
“Why did you learn those languages?”
“German and Chinese for business. Korean for Mom Jina, because she prefers speaking it instead of English, and French because my moms live in Lausanne, which is on the French-speaking side of Switzerland.”