Page 189 of Love Me Stalk Me
I let out a strangled laugh, hiding behind my wine glass like it might somehow shield me from this conversation.
She narrows her eyes, leaning closer. "Izzy."
I know that resistance is futile. Amanda with a mission is like a tsunami—unstoppable, relentless, and impossible to divert.
"We're taking it slow," I finally admit, swirling the remaining wine in my glass, watching the dark liquid create a small whirlpool.
Amanda recoils like I just told her I'm adopting a purely celibate lifestyle and moving to a convent in the mountains. Her face contorts into an expression of such profound disbelief that it would be comical if it weren't directed at me.
"Excuse me?"
I shrug, fighting a smile at her reaction, at the genuine bewilderment written across her features.
"Taking it... slow?" She repeats the words like they're in a foreign language she's struggling to translate. "You and the walking embodiment of masculine perfection are... taking it slow?"
I shrug.
"Why the hell would you take it slow with a man like that? That's like being handed the keys to a Ferrari and deciding to only drive it in parking lots!"
I set my glass down on the coffee table, curling my legs beneath me more comfortably. "It's not really my choice," I admit, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. "He said he wantsto experience our firsts slowly. Savor them."
Amanda melts onto the couch, sliding down until she's practically horizontal, one hand thrown dramatically over her forehead. "Jesus fucking Christ."
I’m unable to contain my amusement at her theatrics.
"You're telling me."
She fans herself with her hand, as if the very thought of Cal's restraint is making her overheat. "Okay, but real talk? That's somehow hotter than if he'd just railed you against a wall. Like, the discipline? The control? The patience? That's some next-level shit."
I let out a laugh, shaking my head at her assessment. "You're actually insane. Genuinely, clinically unstable."
"No, I'm correct. I'm right and you know it." She leans in, eyes still practically sparkling with mischief, with fascination. "So... how long are you going to let him savor you before you demand he put that big dick to work? Because patience is a virtue, but girl, there's also such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment."
"You really have no shame, do you?"
She shrugs, the gesture careless and unrepentant. "None. Zero. Zilch. Shame is for people who aren't living their best lives, and I refuse to be one of them."
Honestly?
I have no idea.
I don't know how long I can stand the sweet torture of his restraint, how long I want to exist in this delicious anticipation before it becomes too much. Part of me wants to savor it, to enjoy the build-up, the tension, the way each touch feels more significant because we're denying ourselves the ultimate release. Another part of me just wants him, all of him, now, immediately, without any more waiting.
But there's something beautiful about the waiting, too. Something that makes each touch feel more deliberate, more meaningful, more intense.
Somewhere between the fourth glass of wine, our food arriving in a flurry of steaming containers and plastic bags, and me realizing I've lost all feeling in my lips—a sure sign I've crossed from pleasantly buzzed into genuinely drunk territory—Amanda gets a terrible idea.
I can see it form in real time, watch the mischief light up her eyes, the way her lips curve into a smile that can only be described as devious.
"You should bring him to meet your family."
I stare at her like she just suggested I take a casual stroll through an active volcano wearing gasoline-soaked clothes. The thought is so absurd, so completely out of left field, that I wonderif I misheard her.
"Why the fuck would I do that?" The words come out sharper than I intend, tinged with genuine alarm. “You’ve been to Sunday Mandatory Dinner. Are you trying to sabotage me?”
Amanda waves her hand wildly, nearly knocking over the bottle of wine perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table. "Why would you not? This is, like, a thing. A real relationship thing. You have to see if he survives the brother test. It's like... relationship baptism by fire."
I groan, dropping my head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer some escape from this conversation. The thought of Cal meeting my family—my overprotective brothers, my traditional parents, the entire Russo clan with their opinions and judgments and questions—sends a spike of anxiety through my wine-soaked brain.
