Page 43 of All Twerk, No Play

“No need to apologize,” I said in the calmest tone I could muster.

“So you’re not going to …”

Her gaze ran down my body, lingering on my raging hard-on.

What did she expect me to do, get mad? Force her?

Who the fuck had she slept with before this?

“You say you’re done, then we’re done,” I said with a casual shrug. “Unless we agree beforehand that you want to be overpowered, at which point we’ll need a safe word … and I’m not wild about somebody overhearing that.” I glanced at the elevator speaker on the wall.

She chewed her lip. It was the first time in weeks I’d seen even a hint of vulnerability, and I didn’t know how to reassure her, except …

“How did you phrase it?Both parties acknowledge their rights to freely consent or withdraw consent at any time.”

Not that I would ever sign her damn sex contract … but her brow softened when I quoted her terms. “You memorized it?”

“It seems important to you.”

“It’s not that I—“ She slumped against the wall of the elevator. “I mean, it’s not a good time for—” Her hand splayed over her pelvis.

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me if you have your period. What’s a little uterine lining between friends?” She laughed before she could rein it in. “But if it’s weird for you, I get it. I still got to lick your tits, that made my week.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she shook her head affectionately. “But no, I don’t have my period.”

“Obviously we can stop, no reason required, but if there’s something—”

She crossed her arms and looked over my shoulder. “I haven’t found a salon since I moved, so down there, it’s …” She closed her eyes to avoid my gaze. “Mallory said women get waxed before they take their night.”

Oh my god. This sweet little perfectionist.

“This isn’t your night.” I leaned on the elevator railing beside her. “It’s Monday morning, and we won’t meet the two hour minimum before the fire department arrives.”

Her arms stayed crossed, but her shoulders relaxed. “If it’s not my night, then what is it?”

Why does she always need rules to follow? “What do you want it to be?”

Her lips quirked. “Tenant mediation.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “And the waxing? That’s news to me. I don’t expect it.”

She popped her hip, shifting it into my forearm.

“Remember, I lived on a submarine with a hundred ugly, smelly dudes. I’ve seen more wrinkly, hairy ballsacks than you can imagine. Pubes on pubes.” She let out a nervous chuckle. “So if you think a couple stray hairs would turn me off … If there’s a jungle down there, I’m going in head first with a machete. We don’t have to do anything, but please don’t let that stop you. Anything else on your mind?”

Her lips tightened in a thin line before she blurted out, “I hate when people joke about the curtains matching the rug.”

Well that answered one of the many questions I pondered in the shower … and the answer would feature in my next shower.

“Never,” I vowed, biting my cheek so hard I could taste my own blood.

Her hand rose to rest on my chest, tracing the dove tattoo. Her half-lidded gaze dropped to my mouth. “Okay,” she whispered as she—

“Cruz?” Tracy’s metallic voice came from the speaker. “Fire Department will be there in five.”

I dropped my forehead to hers and whispered, “Coitus interruptus.”

"Good as Hell," Lizzo

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