The Alexander estate looks gothic in appeal with its cathedral windows, its upright stone lions just feet from the entry. Cruise comes around and escorts me toward the tall mahogany doors. A pair of oversized tinfoil wreathes adorn the entry and manage to look slightly out of place among all the grandeur. But honestly, the only thing on my mind this past hour has been those heated kisses. My face still burns from their fire. I can still feel his tongue in my mouth, bumping against mine, and I replay it over and over like some muscular memory. Cruise gives a good strong knock, and we wait in awkward silence. He washes a quick glance over my body in a covert manner, and his chest expands in response to my curves. I wonder if he’s thought of those kisses—if he still feels me in his mouth and how I measure up to the long line of girls who had been there before. Cruise leans toward me and fills the interim between us with his spiced cologne. “So, Pennington”—he pauses—“asshole or douchebag?”
