He lifts a brow. “Oh, I know.”
And… all my naughty desires from earlier suddenly crowd into the booth with me.
Damn him.
As if my natural eye color wasn’t odd enough, I sometimes like to play dress-up with my irises. One of those times was last year. With Jack. Yada, yada, yada.
“But because I only need my glasses at night or for reading,” I continue, sidestepping more bait, “and popping in a pair of gooey contacts before every meal is inconvenient, I carry these babies around.” I tap a finger to one of the rhinestone corners. “At least until I can afford laser surgery.”
He props an arm over the back of the booth. “And surgery will correct your vision so you no longer need glasses?” The mural of inked images twisting around his forearm and bicep demand my attention for a moment, inviting me to run my fingertips over their designs and, you know, other places on Jack’s body. But I quickly recover, like the non-horny, class act I am.
I nod. “Twenty-twenty, baby. Then these librarian spectacles are gone for good.”
He considers that for a moment and a shadow of disappointment passes his eyes. “And it’ll just be your golden cat eyes against the world.”
I don’t know why people always compare me to a cat. Maybe it’s the way I slink about when I walk, or my dark features, or the exotic angle of my yellow-hued eyes. Whatever the reason, people seem to think of me as catlike. And while I typically hate that, there are two people I don’t mind thinking of me as a feline. Pixie is one. The dark-haired, gray-eyed tattoo show sitting across from me is the other.
“Isn’t it always?” I smile smugly.
He stares at me, his gaze penetrating my pink glasses and diving straight through me. “No.”
I let myself stay caged in his silver arrows. It’s warm here. Safe. It’s all the things that I refuse to need, which is precisely why I hate the silky haze it brings.
I snap my attention to the waitress headed back to our table with our drinks, grateful for the distraction.
She sets the ice-cold beverages down. I don’t look at Jack and he doesn’t look at me. Informing us that she’ll be back momentarily to take our orders, the waitress leaves and I have no choice but to look up, where Jack’s eyes wait for mine.
The silky haze returns. Sighing heavily, I banish it from our table with a scowl that could sear a pigeon mid-flight and dart my eyes away.
Flicking our menus up like thin plastic barriers, Jack and I study the restaurant’s dinner selection like we’re prepping for the SATs. The tension slowly dissipates, like it always does, and eventually I relax.
The waitress returns and we give our orders to her waiting pen, hovering over a skinny notepad, poised to scribble down our every wish. It does just that and she reaches for our menus with a cheerful smile.
I reluctantly release my plastic shield and calmly fold my hands on top of the table as she walks away. “So I was thinking we’d drive through Burksbend to get to Little Vail.”
He shakes his head. “Rayfort is faster.”
“Are you sure? I think Burksbend is faster—and it’s a straight shot.”
“It’s not a straight shot. It’s a two-lane highway through mountains. Rayfort is the way to go.”
I think for a moment then shrug. “We’re going through Burksbend anyway.”
He juts his jaw. “Are you always this controlling? God.” He scoffs. “It’s like you can’t relinquish control for even a second. You always have to be in charge. You always have to call the shots. I bet you’re always on top during sex too.”
He says it jokingly, but the truth in his statement catches me off guard and it must show in my face because his eyebrows go sky-high.
“Are you kidding me?” he says in a quiet voice. “You’re always on top when you have sex?”
I shrug. “I like being on top.”
“Yeah, but… you’ve been in other positions before too, right?” When I don’t answer he repeats, “Right?”
I look at the table. “No.”
His mouth falls open then closes as his face crinkles in disbelief. “Even your first time?”
I snap my eyes to him. “I don’t know why this baffles people so much. Girls being on top their first time makes total sense. It gives them the power to control when and where, and how, uh… comfortable things are.” I flick a hand. “Total sense. So yeah. Even my first time.”
He just stares at me.
“Look,” I say, leaning in. “I like to be the power player during sex. The hurricane. The idea of being at some guy’s mercy is just… not sexy. I want to be the queen and absolute authority. So I’m always on top.” I shrug and lean back. “Get over it.”