Page 9 of Unbound
“What? Why?”
Without responding, Jasper went back to his food.
“Why would you want to see me with another man?” I pressed. “I mean, most guys are totally against that. They’d pitch a fit to see a girl with another guy. It just doesn’t make any—”
“I get off on being the best,” Jasper said, cutting me off mid-sentence. “I like knowing that while another man can give you pleasure, I’m the one in your bed after.”
“Um.” I didn’t really know what to say to that. I wasn’t sure I could have said anything, actually, with my head full of wicked images sparked by Jasper’s words.
Him. Me. And someone else.
My skin was hot. I caught him looking at me, and where I would have expected him to smirk, he just seemed to be watching, waiting.
We ate in silence for a moment. I slurped my drink through my straw and waited for Jasper to make the next move. I felt like there was a pink elephant hanging in the room above us, but if Jasper felt the same way, he didn’t show it. He sucked down his soda.
“So, tell me about you,” he said finally.
I cocked my head. “What about me?”
“Whatever’s important.”
I chuckled. “That’s kind of vague. What, am I supposed to tell you my life story?”
“Sure. Tell me your life story. Start at the beginning.”
I shook my head gently. “I’m not telling you my life story…”
Jasper shrugged one shoulder. “Fair enough. I know the bullet points, though. Dr. Cari Dunn, grew up in the suburbs of D.C. in a middle-to-upper class family. Decent childhood, never wanted for much, spent most of your time playing with dinosaurs instead of with Barbies—”
“Ugh,” I said, shaking my head. “When you tell it like that, you make me sound like some two-dimensional everyman. Or everywoman, I guess you would say.”
“So? Tell me something I don’t already know. Dig deep.”
I thought about it for a minute. “Well, I’m a perfectionist.”
“You think?” He snorted. “Yeah, I can tell. The doctorate was the first clue. You dropped a couple of hints last night, too.”
I scowled. “How so? What hints did I drop?”
“Moving on.” There was the smirk I’d been waiting for. “I know you’re a perfectionist. That’s not new information. I want to know something I didn’t already know.”
I leaned back in the seat, draping my arm over the backrest. “Well, how about you? Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, I guess that settles that.” I leaned forward again, plucking a French fry from my plate and popping it in my mouth. Another awkward silence ensued.
“Fine,” I said eventually. “I like knowing what I want.”
“You like knowing what you want.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I like to be able to see the finish line. Or, at least, I like knowing that there’s a finish line to be found. I don’t like drifting. I like to have a goal in mind, something to reach. If I’m not doing something—if I don’t have a target to shoot for—I go out of my mind.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know. There’s not much else. I mean, I see people sitting in front of televisions, and I can’t understand how they can live with themselves, just idling. Or the beach—I’ve never been able to go to the beach. I can’t stand to just lie there doing nothing. I have to be doing something. Even when I was a kid and I’d go to the lake with my parents, I had to be doing something, like building a sandcastle or trying to hang a tire swing. I can’t stand to idle.”
“You like goals.”
