Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Into my hair, he whispers, “I have an observation, too.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you when
you come.”
My face flushes. I can’t tell if that feeling in my chest is
pride or embarrassment, but I kind of like it.
“Ditto.”
He pauses. “Ditto? That’s my postcoital compliment?”
“Postcoital? We’re breaking out all the big words, I see.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m just a pretty face.”
He’s teasing. I love it when he teases me. It happens so
infrequently. I say lightly, “Oh, no, I don’t. You have all kinds
of impressive qualities besides your ravishing beauty.”
Another pause, this one longer.
I say, “You’re thinking the term ‘ravishing beauty’ doesn’t
gel with your blistering machismo, am I right?”
“I mean, I guess it’s flattering.”
He sounds disturbed. I stifle a laugh, trying to play serious.
“Except?”
“Except it makes me sound like a debutante in a Regency
romance novel.”
It’s my turn to be disturbed. “How the hell do you know
what a Regency romance novel is?”
“I have eclectic taste in literature.”
Incredulous, I rear up onto an elbow and stare at him. He’s
smiling at me lazily, looking smug.
I say flatly, “You read romance.”
He pretends innocence, widening his eyes. “Why? Is that
not something a ‘real’ man should do?”
I smack him on his brick wall of a pectoral muscle.
“You’re pulling my leg.”