“I didn’t intend for you to wear it to dinner,” he responds, jaw tight.

“Oh. When am I supposed to wear it?”

“In your room. To bed.”

“So, you bought me something this nice, something I can’t wear out of the house, but also something you don’t want to see me walking around the house in?” I’m so confused. “I saw the price tag on it. I feel like I should wear it every day to get the value out of it.”

Barrett rubs his chin. Those fingers are doing that lip tug again.

“Wear it whenever you want,” Barrett mutters, but a second later his fork clinks against his plate. “You know what? No. If you’re going to make me sit here and have nothing to do but look at you, then that outfit is off limits for dinner. I don’t want to be eating my dinner and have to see you looking like…like…that.”

My hands grip the back of the chair.

“Like what?” I say, ready for a fight.

Barrett stands and any power I felt standing over him is gone. His tall, broad frame towers over me.

“Like I could eat you for dinner,” he says.

Holy shit. That is the last thing I expected him to say. That’s the issue with Barrett, he is impossible to read. While I’m trying to figure him out, he’s like some artificial intelligence that gets smarter and maneuvers around every attempt. His stare is so intense, the green with gold flecks disappearing behind a ring of black. The tension and silence that fills the air is suffocating.

I can’t help myself, I start laughing. Not because any of this is remotely funny, but because that’s my coping mechanism in this awkward, but highly arousing situation. Do I want Barrett to eat me for dinner? My body does. It’s sending out all sorts of signals. My nipples are rock hard against the thin, smooth fabric of my tank and the panties I changed into earlier after a bath…soaking wet. But my brain is a loose cannon, thinking of all the awkward and embarrassing things that could happen if Barrett were to feast on me. So here I am standing in the middle of Barrett’s kitchen, aroused and laughing while his face hardens to stone.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you,” I explain, sounding like a parent consoling a child, which is disturbing in and of itself. Except Barrett isn’t laughing. “That’s not what I meant.” How can I make Barrett understand that inexperience makes me a little skittish when it comes to sex and all that stuff without telling him how inexperienced I am? I’m not a virgin, but sometimes it feels like I might as well be.