Page 42 of My Dark Prince
“I can’t recall any version of me that would enjoy a spiky dildo.”
“Well, it exists. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be here.”
I frowned. “This is … surprising.”
“Wait till you see your goat-shaped prostate massager collection.”
Oh my god.
This had to be work-related research. I worked as an intimacy coordinator, right?
“You might have to show me how to use it again. I definitely forgot.”
Oliver closed his eyes briefly, his mouth moving in a silent prayer.
I popped a brow up, stuffing our sex toys back into the glove compartment. “Why are you acting so weird?”
“Weird how?”
“You’re, I dunno …stiff.”
He choked the steering wheel to the point of white knuckles, rearranging his buns of steel on his seat. “My being stiff is usually a bonus for you, not a complaint.”
I ignored his very obvious erection, reading the speedometer. “And why are you driving at 30 miles per hour?”
“I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“By boring me to death?”
“Briar, I—”
“What happened to Cuddlebug?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Nothing,” he finally answered. “Last we spoke, you didn’t want me using that nickname.”
“Wow.”
I’d grown tolovethat nickname. The fight the night of the accident must’ve been major. I hated the idea of being a bridezilla, but Ihadgrown up fantasizing about marrying Oliver. There must’ve been a flower arrangement I couldn’t do without.
I changed the subject, not wanting to bring it up quite yet. “Do we have a big backyard?”
“Yes.” He frowned, eyes still on the road. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, you’re obviously in the doghouse, and I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
Still, I couldn’t quite believe I’d asked him not to call me Cuddlebug, and he’d taken the request seriously. Something was fishy about this entire thing, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. Contemplating the possibilities made my head feel like every failed drummer in the country currently resided inside it. Something had caused Oliver to feel uncomfortable around me, and I needed to find out what it was.
His phone rang in the central console. The ringtone danced between us. “Sleeping Beauty” by Tchaikovsky.Finally, something that reminded me of us. A string of nostalgia loopedaround my heart. It left as fast as it had come but doubt lingered. How could it not? Nostalgia is the heart’s way of holding on to what time can’t keep.
I swallowed the kernel of doubt, deciding to break the ice.
I jumped in my seat, slapping a hand to my heart. “HOLY SHIT.”
“What?What?” Ollie swerved over to the shoulder of the road and turned on his hazard lights, his eyes roaming my upper body in a panic. “What’s wrong?”
“Your tiny laptop cansing.” I pointed at the phone, covering my mouth with my whole palm. “Can it dance, too?”
“Can what dan …” he trailed off, staring at his phone between us.
