Page 108 of Taste of Addiction

“You’re laughing at me,” I point out, pushing my chair back to get up. I don’t need this right now. “Your clue sucks. What are we doing—rekeying locks?”

He holds his hand up to stop me. He places the napkin down on the table and clears his throat. “All apologies. I am sorry. It is just that you catch me off guard sometimes—many times—and I do not expect it.”

“What is it, Graham? And what is it for?”

I can tell he is holding back a smirk, and why he tries to hide it with the back of his hand beats me, when it is so obvious.

“It is a butt plug. And it goes in—”

“I can fill in the blanks!”

“Very well.”

“The answer is holy hell no.” I am not shy around sex toys. However, I am not adventurous—or brave—enough to try something likethison my own. The doorknobthinglooks daunting. There is no way I am going to enjoy metal shoved up my butt.

“It was never a question,” he says blankly, his eyes studying me.

“Hell to the capital no. And quit looking at me like you are going to convince me otherwise.”

“You have obviously never tried it, so why write it off as being a negative thing? Surely you are a bit curious.”

I point my empty fork at his idea of fun. I open my mouth to speak but the words escape me. I furrow my brow and shake my head no.

“No?”

I look up into Graham’s eyes. “It’s not going to fit.”

His smile is soft. “It will.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Is that your main fear?” he asks in a serious tone.

“Maybe.”

“Angela. Do you trust me?”

“I did until this very moment.”

He sighs. “I brought lube. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“Sure, let me just bend over this table and plop that thing into me now.”

“My only regret is forgetting a gag. Would come in handy for your sassy mouth.”

I glare my eyes at his. “Next time.” My words come out as sarcastic as I intended for them. “What’s the point of it anyway? I can’t imagine it is going to feel good.”

“We shall see.”

“So it’s decided?”

“Yes. Now, eat your dinner.”

I guzzle my flute of grape juice and silently wish it were wine. At least a buzz would make all of my anxiety seem lesser than what it currently is. As soon as my empty glass hits the table, a waiter is at my side to refill it, but I shoo him away before he can do so. This is beyond awkward. We are sitting here with some table accessory that belongs in the bottom drawer of my nightstand—not beside the salt and pepper shaker.

“Touch yourself,” he says.

I gawk at him.

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