"I said no, the dress don’t give you a fat arse because you already have a fat arse."
I splutter a laugh, covering my face with my hands. "And you live to tell about it?"
He turns his head to show me his left cheek, pointing at a thin scar on his left cheekbone. "Backhanded me and left me this with her ring."
"Ring?" I ask, eyebrow arched.
He rolls his eyes. "Not a wedding ring, no." He looks away, though, which seems to be hiding a guilty conscience.
I gape at him, mouth open. "You fucked a married woman!"
He rolls a shoulder, not looking at me. "She made the choice, didn't she? I wasn't married. Her marriage was her business."
"That's a bullshit excuse. If you knew she was married and you still fucked her, you're part of the problem, Rush."
He sighs. "In hindsight, it may have been an error in judgment, yes."
"Why? Because you got caught?" I ask, my tone droll and openly judgmental.
"I did get caught, yes. Not with the fat-arse girl, but someone else.” He gives me a flat, annoyed, side-eye stare. "No, I'm not tellin' you the story of that one. Wasn't my finest hour and it fucked my life up but permanent-like. Not somethin' I care to relive."
I shrug. "Alright, then. That's fair."
He pauses, eying me as if waiting. "What? That's it?"
"I don't play head games, Rush. If I want answers, you'll know. If you tell me you're not talking about it, I accept it, if only because you've afforded me that same consideration."
He nods. After a moment, he grins at me. "We got sidetracked, and I'd like to get back to discussing my favorite topic."
I blink at him. "What?"
"Tits. Specifically yours."
"I thought we'd covered that already," I say.
"You said you required elaboration on why I think yours are perfect." He meets my eyes, and then pointedly takes a nice, long gander at my chest again. "Still interested in that elaboration?"
I roll my eyes. "This feels like a setup to get me to show you my boobs."
“Is it workin'?" That stupid, fucking smirk.
"Nope."
"Shame. We can still talk about 'em though, can't we?"
I laugh. "I'm good."
Truth be told, I'd like to hear what he has to say. But I don't want to come off insecure or needy. I'm not insecure about my boobs, I swear. I mean, sure, when your BFF, who's basically your sister, has the biggest, most perfectly tear-drop shaped natural melons I've ever seen and I'm sporting these cute little grapefruits, yeah, there might be a bit of inferiority complex happening. Or maybe just a little jealousy.
Zero, when I confessed this to him during pillow talk one night, offered to buy me, and I quote, 'an upgrade.' Yeah, guess who slept on the couch that night? Was it a bit of an overly-sensitive reaction to an offer coming from a place of love? Yes. But I maintain that saying he'd get me implants would be an upgrade was insensitive. He admitted it the next day and apologized, and we never discussed it again. Because I don't want implants. Most of the time.
When Rush looks at me the way he does, with that lecherous little smirk, telling me my boobs are perfect? Yeah, that feels nice.
"You're thinkin' about it, aren't you?" Rush asks, and I realize he's been watching me carefully this whole time.
"Stop staring at me. It's creepy."
"Remember what I said? Art is meant to be appreciated. What's the point in you being so fuckin' stunnin' if I can't have a look at you?"
