Page 58 of The Wedding Menu

“Uh, yes. Sort of… yes.”

He exhales deeply, then his chuckle melts my insides, warm and throaty and calmness personified as Ian always is. “That’s… funny,” he says, as if he doesn’t think it’s funny at all. “That is really,reallyfunny.”

“How so?”

“Because, Amelie, that’s insane. You’re hot—and that’s not just my opinion. You’re universally hot, objectively hot. Long legs, amazing ass, and you have the face of an angel, which most men appreciate on a primordial level.”

“Aprimordiallevel,” I echo.

“Yeah. So innocent and angelic. Our primal instincts tell us to mess you up.” When I let out a laugh, he continues. “I mean it! Turn you into a sobbing, desperate, dirty mess. We want to defile you,” he insists, his voice fluid and joyous, as if he’s smiling.

“Thank you,friend,” I say pointedly. He’ll say stuff like that every once in a while, but always with a painfully playful tone. IfI’m so desirable, how come Frank doesn’t want me? “I think the problem is howangelicI am.” I grimace. “Howinnocent.”

“Hmm. And how much is that? Paint me a word picture.”

I cross my ankles over the coffee table. “Ha-ha. What should I do, Ian?”

“I’d suggest switching your current model for a more advanced one, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be well received.”

“It would not.”

He hums, and in the few seconds of silence that follow, I fidget with my engagement ring. “Okay. How about… get yourself into a tiny lingerie set and wait for him in bed.” There’s a clap. “Done.”

“Hmm…” I doubt it’d be in any way more interesting than the girls he’s probably sleeping with right now. He’s seen my bras plenty of times.

“No? Okay… how about… role-playing? Tie your wrists to the bed and tell him you’ve been a naughty,naughtygirl. No way he says no to that.”

With a snicker, I say, “I don’t know.”

“I guarantee he’s not going to be able to resist you half-naked and whispering dirty shit in his ear.” When all he gets is an unconvincing “I guess,” he continues. “Come on. Pretend it’s him. He comes in and you say…”

I get up and head to the bathroom, grabbing a brush to disentangle my hair before I take a shower. “You? No, Ian, I’m not—”

“?‘Hi, Amelie,’?” Ian says in a weird nasal voice. “?‘Work has me really stressed-out, but blimey, doesss it help to sssee you in that ssssexy red bra, mate.’?”

Snorting in amusement, I lean against the bathroom sink. “He sounds nothing like that. And why did you morph into a British snake?”

“I don’t know. Come on. What do you say?”

I let out a whiff of air, setting the brush on the marble counter. “I say… ‘Hi, Frank. Do you… I want you to come to the bedroom with me.’?”

“Mm-hmm. Okay.”

“?‘And I—’?” Shaking my head, I close my eyes and blurt out, “?‘I want to lie in bed together, get naked, kiss, then touch you and—’?”

“?‘Crikey, Professor, thank you for the lecture! I’ve always wondered where babies came from.’?”

“Your Australian accent is terrible.”

“So is your dirty talk,” he says flatly. “Where’s your bar graph? How are you grading his paper?”

“Just leave it be.” I look into the drawer under the sink for… nothing, really. “I told you I’m not—I don’t—” I groan, snapping the drawer closed. “I told you I don’t know how to do this.”

“Okay, okay, calm down.” He sounds far less amused now, his voice returning to the usual dark timbre, and after a couple of seconds of silence, he speaks again. “He comes in, and you say, ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. About how much I want you inside me.’?”

In the mirror, my eyes widen, the deep brown looking even darker against my red cheeks as I press my lips together tightly so that no noise comes out.

“And then you say, ‘I want you to take me against the wall and make me forget everything else but your name. And once you shove me on our bed, I want you to bend me over, push my face against the pillow, and use me like I’m your dirty little fuck toy.’?”