Page 51 of Infatuation (The Josh & Kat Trilogy #1)

He shoots me the “Blue Steel” male-model face Ben Stiller made famous in that movie.

“Blue steel!” we both shout at the same time.

“Oh my God, Josh,” I say. “You’re the first person I’ve ever seen make ‘Blue Steel’ look good .”

He laughs. “So is that it? Is that everything you’ve figured out about me from my deep and profound ‘YOLO’ ass-tattoo?”

“Oh no, there’s more.” I look at him sideways. “You clearly have a bit of an evil streak.”

“No, I don’t. Not at all. We’re talking about me, not you , remember?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Really, though, I don’t have a mean bone in my body.”

“Ha! You were willing to tag poor Henn’s ass for the rest of his life, for nothing but stupid yucks.”

Josh looks wildly offended. “How the fuck does that make me evil? Henn was willing to do the exact same thing to me—and, in fact, he did do it to me. That makes Henn way more evil than me.”

“But Henn was right .”

“But I didn’t know that. Actually, the most heinous person of all was Reed. He’s the one who came up with the diabolical idea in the first place, just for his sick pleasure, the prick.”

“Yeah, that was pretty evil.”

There’s a beat as we both sip our drinks, smiling broadly at each other. My skin is buzzing with electricity.

“What else can you tell about me, Party Girl? I like this game.”

“Well, you’ve got an extraordinarily beautiful ass. Perhaps the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. Back at you. Especially when it’s stomping furiously down a hallway in nothing but a G-string.”

“Oh, you liked that, did you?”

“I liked that a lot. ”

“I could tell.” I wink. “Your wet undies were completely see-through, you may recall.”

He licks his lips. “You wanted me so bad,” he says, “you were losing your fucking mind—not to mention dripping down your legs.”

I smirk, but I don’t deny it.

“So tell me more, PG. More, more, more.”

“Well...” I trail off. “Besides the fact that you have a beautiful ass?”

“Besides that. Something deep and profound.”

“Okay. Well . . .” I twist my mouth. “You seem to be ... kind of... I don’t know the word. I took Philosophy 101, but I forget it all. Fatalistic ?”

“I think that’s when someone believes their fate is, like, written in the stars—outside their control. Is that what you mean?”

“No. That’s not it. Well, maybe, sort of.”

“Because I am fatalistic to some degree. I think some things are beyond our control—like a brick wall you’re hurtling toward whether you like it or not. Nothing you can do about it.”

“Well, jeez. That’s kind of a bummer.”

“Not necessarily. Some brick walls feel fucking awesome when you crash into them.” His eyes flicker. “Some brick walls are worth the pain.”

I blush.

“What about you—do you believe in fate?”

I shake my head. “No. I believe in kicking ass.”

He smirks. “So, then, what did you mean to say?”

“What is it when someone thinks nothing matters? That everything is kind of pointless in the end?”

“I think that’s nihilism. I’d have to ask Jonas, though. But, of course, I’d never do that because then he’d talk my ear off about fucking philosophy for an hour and then I’d have to kill myself, which would be a major bummer.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t have been able to come up with the word ‘nihilism’ if my life depended on it. I must have meant something else. I dunno.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I don’t think anything matters?”

“No. Of course not. I know things matter to you. ”

He shifts his position on the bed. “Because I definitely think some things matter. A man’s word.

Friends. A man’s family—whatever’s left of it, anyway.

” A shadow briefly crosses his face. “It’s just that so few things really matter, there’s no sense getting too worked up about much.

Getting a stupid ass-tattoo? Who gives a shit, you know?

Like I say, in the end we’re all gonna die anyway, might as well just enjoy the ride and not sweat the small stuff. ”

“So maybe your YOLO tattoo isn’t really a reminder to you not to get too cocky or comfortable, after all,” I say tentatively. “Maybe, it’s more something to help you remember the few things that actually matter to you.”

There’s a long beat.

“What about your other tattoos?” I ask, suddenly uncomfortable with the silence. I wasn’t trying to get all deep—it kind of happened by accident. “Did you get your other tattoos in tribute to the few things that matter—or because we’re all gonna die, anyway?”

He makes a face. “Some of each, depending on the tattoo.”

“When did you get the one for your mom?” I ask.

“When I was twenty, I think.”

“She died when you were seven?”

He nods.

“Why did you tell me it means ‘But for the Grace of God I go’ rather than telling me it’s your mom’s name?”

He shrugs. “I never tell people about my mom.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?”

“Because I gave you my application and you still owe me yours.”

He makes an annoyed face. “When I was really young, I used to tell people about her whenever anyone asked. Jonas and I had to see a therapist when we were kids and I used to just talk and talk and talk. Blah, blah, blaaaah. But when I was a teenager, I noticed every time I told people, I felt worse, not better. Telling people made them look at me funny—like there was something wrong with me because my mom was murdered—like, I dunno, all of a sudden, they thought every time I laughed I was full of shit. And then, after my dad died, and everything that happened with Jonas, I just shut the fuck up completely. From then on, talking about Mom just opened the floodgates to questions about my dad, which meant I’d pretty much be talking about Jonas and all his shit.

And I realized I don’t need anyone scrutinizing my face as I’m talking for telltale signs that I’m ‘laughing through the pain.’”

I bite my lip.

He exhales. “New topic. Have you always been this way?”

“What way? Annoying?”

“No. So fucking orgasmic .”

“Oh.” I make a face like he just gave me whiplash. “Wow, that was a sudden shift in topic.”

He forges right ahead. “I’ve never been with a woman who has orgasms so easily and often as you do.” He smirks and bites into a fry. “I’m already addicted to making you come. Best game ever.”

I feel a surge of pure elation, but I don’t reply.

“Jesus, if I could come that many times in a row, I’d never leave my room. You must masturbate all the time.”

I blush.

“Oh, come on. Cat got your tongue, Kitty Kat? You wrote me that awesome application and now you’re gonna get all shy on me?”

“It’s different to write all that stuff down than to talk about it, face-to-face.”

“Aw, come on, PG.” He shoots me an incredibly charming look. “It’s just me, remember? Honesty-game. How often do you masturbate?”

I feel my cheeks blazing.

“Come on, Kat. Honesty-game, baby.”

I sigh audibly. “Every day, pretty much. I try not to let a day go by without having an orgasm.”

“ Nice .”

“An orgasm a day keeps the blues away.”

“I love it. When did you discover your motor runs so hot?”

My cheeks are hot. “Growing up, my brothers always talked about sex and jerking off as easily as talking about the weather. When I was, like, twelve or thirteen, I asked my oldest brother, Colby, if girls jerk off and got off, too, just like boys, and he said, ‘Sure they do—of course—it’s just a bit harder to tell.’ He was so matter of fact about it, like it was no big deal.

He made me feel like one of the guys, like it was perfectly natural and not shameful or weird.

So later that day I put the showerhead between my legs and left it there on the massage setting, and within a few minutes, I had my very first orgasm.

And I loved it. I mean, I was like, ‘Oh my God, that was the best feeling ever.’ So then every single time I took a shower, I just made it a habit to give myself an orgasm, along with washing my hair and shaving my legs—just a part of my routine.

And soon, I was getting off twice in one shower.

And then I started reading romance novels as a teen and touching myself and getting myself off.

.. I dunno. I just got really good at it.

” I shrug and take a huge bite of my burger.

Josh’s eyes are boring holes into my face.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re incredible,” he says. “The hottest woman alive. Do you have any idea how hot you are?”

“Honesty-game?” I ask.

He smirks. “Of course.”

“Yeah, I think I’m pretty hot.” I giggle and take a bite of a French fry.

He laughs. “Yes, you are, Madame Terrorist. Most definitely.”

“Do you know how hot you are?” I ask.

“Honesty-game?”

I nod.

“Yeah, I think I’m pretty hot.”

We both laugh.

“So when you masturbate, what’s your weapon of choice?” he asks, swigging his drink.

“Why do you wanna know all this?”

“I’m collecting intel for future use. Plus, it’s just plain turning me on.”

I make a face. “Well, recently, the thing I like to use the most while touching myself is the memory of this one really hot guy with a huge dick, standing in a hallway, dripping wet in his tighty-whities, every detail of his hard-on clearly visible beneath his wet briefs.”

Josh grins. “Wow, that’s quite a coincidence, because, recently, I’ve been partial to jacking off to memories of this one incredibly hot terrorist, stomping down a hallway in her bra and G-string, her bare ass-cheeks quaking with fury as she goes.”

I laugh .

“So tell me exactly how you like to masturbate. What works best for you? Lying down? Shower? Toys? Fingers?”

All of a sudden, my clit is tingling. “ Why ?”

“Because I wanna know. It’ll help me get you off to know exactly what you like.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Ah. Show me don’t tell me?”

I nod. There’s a beat. I know exactly what he wants me to say. My heart is pounding in my ears. I bite my lip. “Would you like to watch me do it some time?” I ask softly.

He nods, his eyes smoldering. “I thought you’d never ask.”

My cheeks flush. I swallow hard. Why is this turning me on so much?