“That’s disgusting,” I say flatly.
“A lap dance,” Loren suddenly says. “If Rose loses, she should give Connor a five minute lap dance.”
My chest constricts, and I glare so hard at Loren that my eyes feel like they’re being serrated.
“You don’t have to do that,” Connor tells me. He studies the way I lock a breath in my lungs.
I am not my sister.
When it comes to intimacy, I am a chicken. I’ll fully admit that. I’m more likely to run out of a pair of arms than run in them.
And Loren is completely aware of my hesitance. A part of me wonders if he feels badly for Connor, knowing that I haven’t been putting out after such a long time together. But maybe Loren’s just trying to provoke a reaction out of me.
Which everyone is about to see.
“You don’t think I would do it?” I ask Connor. I’m not sure I could grind on Connor. In public. Without being humiliated. I am confident in all areas except these: Being sexy, being skilled in bed, being great at sex. I believe, wholeheartedly, that sex is not something you can study to ace. No, you have to learn by experience.
And I have none.
So I have a feeling that once I do have sex with Connor, our relationship will be different. Any attraction that pulls between us will be cut with my sloppy moves and my inability to please him.
So far he has never pressured me to have sex, but I wait for the moment when he walks out—when he’s had enough of my high-octane personality and my obsessive compulsive behavior.
Hell, I want to walk away from me sometimes. My therapist even hates me. She’s prescribed me Alprazolam, Paroxetine, Fluvoxamine, and Clomipramine, drugs that I have taken and then disposed. On them, I feel so high I could be floating through life or I’m so heavy I could be sinking into mortal hell.
I am not the girl you want to sleep with every week. I’m the chase. The one you catch and then release. And once Connor has sex with me, he’ll be done. He’ll have won the hardest challenge of his life—de-virginizing the biggest virgin.
I know this. It’s how all men work with me.
And I never, ever let them win.
But Connor is getting close.
He watches me scrub my skin harder, my whole body tense and unmoving except for the bristle brush in between my fingers.
“Don’t answer her,” Loren warns him. “It’s a trick.”
Connor doesn’t move his gaze off mine. “I can handle her, Lo.” Yes, he may be the only one. He edges close and shuts off the faucet.
I turn it back on. “I’m not finished.” There’s a thin layer of sauce underneath my nails still.
“We both know you won’t give me a lap dance. So let’s stick to the thousand dollar bet.” His voice is unreadable. If there’s disappointment, he won’t ever let me hear it.
I feel defeated in some huge way. “I can do it,” I retort.
“I’m not trying to use reverse psychology on you, Rose. I really don’t think you should.” He shuts the faucet off again, and when I go to turn it back on, he slips in front of me, blocking the sink, and he wraps a towel around my hands.
“They’re clean,” he says.
I glance down at my romper, which is still stained. “I need to change.”
Loren cuts in, “So have we established whether or not we’ll be seeing a lap dance tonight?”
“Only if I lose,” I say.
Connor’s jaw muscles twitch, the single sign that I can read. He really doesn’t want me to do this, but I don’t like the way he’s staring at me. Like I’m a scared little bird.
I’m not frightened. Yet. “And if you lose,” I say, “what do I get in return?”
Connor gazes at my mouth just as I did him. He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip and says, “What do you want, darling?”
My heart pounds. I want to be great in bed. I want to please him better than he pleases me. I want to beat him.
But I know when it comes to sex, I’m never going to win. I’m at such a disadvantage. So I say, “If you lose, I don’t have to give you a lap dance.”
“Boo,” Lily says.
Loren nods. “Boring.
But the only one who matters says, “Deal.” Connor ignores my sister and her boyfriend. He finishes drying my hands. I just now notice how raw and red my skin is. I sometimes get carried away without realizing…
“Whose idea was it to hire a fortuneteller anyway?” Loren asks.
“Production planned it,” I remind him.