I’d certainly never made his fantasies come true. What were his fantasies? Did I know? If he had them, he’d never shared them, and it had never occurred to me to ask.
She was watching me. “You haven’t, have you?”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So, bucket list, Charlie. Make it a top priority—get a man to tell you his deepest, darkest, dirtiest fantasy, and do it for him, as long as it’s within your parameters of safety.”
“What if his fantasy is something messed up, like…I don’t even know. Rape, or a golden shower, or something gross?”
“The whole point is to make it something hot, and kinky, but fun. More for him than you, but I guarantee you, if it’s with the right person, you’ll enjoy the hell out of it. With Marcus, it really was just the desk thing. But withme. His wife couldn’t have fulfilled that one for him, even if she’d been willing to. That’s the kind of fucked-up part about that, I guess.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“So, four days. Fucking all day, all night. Eating, hanging out, him grading papers, and fucking.”
I couldn’t help the crimson blush. I could never talk like her, never, much less do what she’d done. “Four days?”
She nodded, shrugged. “Not my record for sex marathons.”
I blinked, eyes wide. “Jesus.”
“That would be…” she paused for effect. “Jimmy Nawrocki, sophomore year at U-Conn. We rented a hotel for a week, and never left it. Ordered room service, binged Netflix, got hammered, and fucked literally until I physically could not tolerate it. My poor pussy was so sore I could barely walk by the time we were done. But fuck, was it worth it. That boy was agodin the sack. The things he could do with his mouth? And that dick, man, it was—“
“Alexandra!”
She just grinned. Held her hands up, indicated an improbable length, and then made an improbably wide circle with her middle finger touching her thumb. “Like that. A fucking kielbasa, is what it was. Similar curve, too, now that I think about it.”
I hissed at her. “Alexandra Rochelle.”
She just laughed out loud. “Oh shut up. You’re just jealous because all you’ve ever had is Glen freaking Twinkle Mouse the plaid wonder lad.”
I snorted. “Thewhat?”
“Me, Poppy, and Torie all called him Twinkle Mouse.”
“Why?”
“Because when he thought he was being funny, his eyes would twinkle. And he looked like a mouse, and acted like one. Those ears, and the pointy face. The big teeth. Twinkle Mouse.”
“That is not nice,” I said, but I was laughing, because now that she’d pointed it out, I couldn’t unsee it. “But true.”
“Right?”
“Who came up with that?” I asked, expecting it to be her.
“Oh, Torie, I think. The first time you brought him home, she was stoned out of her head, like always, and was like, ‘He twinkles. And he looks like a mouse. I shall call him Twinkle Mouse.’”
“Sounds like Torie,” I said, still laughing. “God, now I’m gonna call him that.”
“He was a Twinkle Mouse.” She frowned at me. “None of us ever understood what you saw in him.”
“That’s a different conversation,” I said, accepting a refill from the waitress and putting my card on the tray to pay the check.
“No, it’s really not,” Lex said, spinning her empty mug like a top. “You just tell me his redeeming qualities, and I’ll destroy them one by one.”
“He was nice,” I said.
“Okay, and?”
