No, I can’t let him see the messages. I rush to grab my phone back from his hand.
He stands on his feet, holding the phone up high. I can’t get it even if I jump to it.
“You have problems. Who sends you the messages?”
He smirks and clicks on my phone screen.
I don’t know what he has seen on my phone, but I do feel nervous. He’s such an emotional person. I
really dare not irritate him.
“Give it back! That’s my privacy.”
I say angrily and try to jump to get it but fail in the end.
“Your privacy? Even you are mine! You have no privacy.” he looks at me from head to feet, his eager
gaze making my body feel hot and nervous.
Then he turns his eyes to my phone again.
He perhaps hasn’t seen the messages. Anyway, I can’t let him see them.
I’m so afraid he would see the messages, so I jump at him with all my might.
He gasps and frowns.
“You are on my injured arm.”
I stop and take a look at him, finding I’m exactly on his wounded arm!
I move away my body quickly, but still looking at him intently.
Still frowning, he reads my messages, but there is no change of expressions on his indifferent face.
I get so nervous that I nearly can’t breathe.
“Just a message of phone bill makes you so nervous?”
He gives my phone back and sits back, slightly curling his lips.
I check the message again. It’s a message from Mobile Company reminding me that it’s time to pay the
phone bills.
Thank goodness my heart now is at ease.
Now I can argue confidently, “That’s right. You can’t check my phone, even though it is a phone bill
message. I don’t like it. If you know I haven’t paid my phone bill, you must think I’m leading a dog’s life
and look down upon me.”
He says nothing but with a light sneer at me. I’m not sure if he believes my words.
I’m done with the apple, handing it to him.
He looks down at the apple and says coldly, “This is the apple you want me to eat?”
“Any problems? Or you want to eat with sugar or vinegar?” I reply impatiently.
There is a clear twitch in his mouth.
“Cut it into small pieces.” He says in a deep voice.
Damn it!
So fussy!
I glare at him with gritted teeth, cutting the apple into pieces on a plate. But I try to feel better by
thinking that the apple under my knife is Frances.
The pieces are elaborately arranged on the plate with toothpicks on them. I feel my service couldn’t be
nicer.
However, Frances is much more difficult to deal with than I thought he would be.
“Feed me.”
He says idly to me, lolling back in his chair.
Feed him?
Impressive. Who does he think he is?!
“You only hurt one arm, and the other hand is totally fine.”
“I’m unused to eating with my left hand. The left hand should be used for something more meaningful.”
he looks at me with ambiguous eyes.
I suddenly remember that he often caresses me with his left hand when we are in bed, and my face
can’t help blushing.
“Indecent!”
Angrily, I stuff his mouth with a piece of apple.
The conversation can’t continue as it develops, or more filthy words would be uttered from his
mouth!
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