"So." She stares back at me. "Are you a feminist?"
"Who wouldn't be?"
"You'd be surprised."
Not really. I'm well aware of how shitty people can be. "I was punk rock when I was a teenager."
"Yeah? Red hair?"
"Once." I run my hand through my dark hair. "My girlfriend did it for me." It was more of a fling, but close enough. "My hair practically melted. Had to get one of those half-shaved haircuts."
"I can't imagine that."
I tug at my t-shirt. "Imagine this with an anarchy symbol."
She laughs. "And now?"
"I've lost an appreciation for chaos."
"And your hair?"
"I no longer strive to piss off my parents."
She laughs. "Good. The dark hair suits you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You've got the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing down pat."
The waitress drops off our drinks. "Your food will be out shortly."
"Thanks." I take a long sip. It's too fast. A waste of good whiskey. But I need something quieting that voice that keeps reminding me that Anna isn't Kaylee. That no one else in the universe is Kaylee.
It's a quick fuck.
I'm going to make her come.
It shouldn't matter that she isn't Kaylee.
It's not like I've ever required an intense connection with a woman. Sure, it's a perk. Especially if we're moving past vanilla.
If I want to tie someone up, I need them to trust me. And I need to trust them to be honest about their limits.
But that comes easier than you'd think.
I take another sip. A slower one. It's good. Rich with that hint of toffee.
Anna brings her wine to her lips. Leaves a red stain on the glass.
That lipstick could be staining my cock.
But picturing those red lips straining around me—
It isn't doing anything to get my blood flowing south.
"So..." She traces the outline of her wine glass. Shoots me that aren't you going to bring up your reputation look. "Are you still punk rock?"
"I still listen to The Clash, but the rest of it—"