"You wouldn't be sitting on my lap if you weren't beautiful," he said in a languid tone, giving her a reply she would probably be happy with, to her jumbled thoughts.
She pressed on, "Does it work with every pretty one?"
His eyes were like the deep sea, inscrutable and unfathomable, "Do you think it does?"
She felt her heart had no anchor, "I don't know, I always feel like you've dated a lot of girlfriends."
"Shouldn't you be happy? You've enjoyed everything that you should," he didn't elaborate.
She sat on his lap, stabilizing herself with the armrest of the sofa, "I don't want to, I want you to be only mine."
His eyes were profound, "Can you handle it?"
She hugged his waist, looked up at him, her eyes filled with an admiration for a mature man that she herself wasn't aware of, uncontrollable and straightforward, naive yet forthright, "I can."
Her eyes were searingly black, as if the fire in them could burn onto him; although she was young, she had desires for him as well.
