"Would you rather get a paper cut on your eyelid or have a bee sting you on the tongue?"
"Ew, how about neither? Are these my only options?"
"Yep. It's Would You Rather, Archie's favorite game. You're not supposed to like either of them."
"Ah, I see." I thought for a moment, all the strange feelings bubbling up inside me until I came up with what I believed to be a brilliant answer. "Well, I'd rather knee you in the nuts then."
His laugh rang loudly in my ear. "Ooh, kinky."
Oh, my God, he did not just say that. "Kinky? That's so not what I—"
"Although now that we're on the subject, I have a better question for you..." His voice dropped and took on that gravelly tone that made me squirm. "Would you rather be kissed slow and deep and thoroughly until you forgot your own name? Or fast and filthy, with your back against the wall?"
My breath caught at the unexpected change in subject, completely caught off guard by my body's instant reaction.
"Um..." I said lamely, no idea what to say.
His low chuckle met my ear. "Don't worry, baby. I already know the answer to that particular question."
He did?
"I've been thinking so much about you lately," he went on in that soft voice. "About that night. The way you tasted. That little sound you made when I first touched you." A beat passed. "And especially the way you looked when my cock was deep inside you."
My mouth went dry. "Tristan," I managed to whisper.
"Tell me you still think about it too." His voice was a quiet dare. "Please tell me."
I shut my eyes, my body aching with want. I hated that he could do this to me, in a matter of seconds. Hated it. And wanted more at the same time. God, what was wrong with me?
"I think about it," I breathed out.All the time.
"Good," he said, his voice deeper. "Then maybe you'll let me make you feel that way again. Even if I can't physically touch you right now, I still remember exactly how you like it."
Sinking back into my pillows, my pulse took off at the possibility, the blood rushing around my body like a rocket about to blast off. The tension, the craving, the lust—it was all too much. Yet not nearly enough.
"Tell me what you're wearing," he demanded to know.
The words sent a zing straight to my core, almost like my pussy knew we were verging on foreplay and might get some action again soon.
Looking down at my fuzzy socks and flannel pajamas, I decided to embellish things a bit. "Just a tank top," I said. "And little sleep shorts."
He made a low, guttural sound in response, kind of like a growl under his breath. "What color?"
"Black," I lied.
"Black," he repeated. "And are they tight?"
I swallowed. "Of course."
"And what about underneath that? Are you wearing any panties?"
I hesitated, thinking about what to say.
"Please say no," he whispered.
That was easy. "No."
A sharp exhale. "Fuck."
