Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,57
or I might embarrass myself.
Newsflash—I picture him the whole damn time, my brain going wild, cycling through filthy image after filthier image.
I let myself indulge in them for the first time in ages—all the dirty things I want to do to him, with him, for him.
I come so hard I don’t stop panting for a minute. Slamming my hand against the shower wall, I breathe out hard, letting the water sluice over my body.
Then, I clean up, wash off, and get out. I shave, since he likes my face smooth.
So do I.
I dress, pulling on jeans and a tight black polo that shows off the bands on my arm and is snug enough so that he can see the outline of my nipple piercing.
After grabbing my keys, I bound down the steps to my attached garage. I don’t usually drive when I go out because parking in this city is the tenth circle of hell. But my gut tells me this is the right choice for tonight. I get in my Tesla and head to the tapas bar, and look, the parking gods smile on me and I snag a spot just around the block.
Once inside, I give the hostess my name.
She guides me to the curved booth I reserved in the back. It’s in a quiet corner, with low lights and a moody vibe.
I’m early, and I could listen to a book, or mess around on my phone for the next ten minutes, but I can’t concentrate for shit, and I don’t want to be fucking around on a screen when Declan walks in.
I’m not even sure what tonight will be for us. What it might mean, where we might go, what it’ll take to get there. But details are for another time.
Tonight, I hope, is for reconnecting. For the good obvious. This evening, I hope that dreamy faraway look can turn into a dreamy close-up look for anyone who can read the truth in my eyes.
Because I know what I want tonight to be.
So does that damned butterfly of hope and anxiety, showing up for its recurring role in the movie otherwise known as Hey Grant, You’ve Still Got it Bad for Your Ex.
No shit, butterfly.
My knee bounces up and down. I peer at the door. Drum my fingers on the table.
I pop in my earbuds, after all, and fiddle around with my book, but I can’t tell if the hero is rappelling into a museum or down a cliff, so I shut it off.
The door swings open at six o’clock on the dot.
My pulse spikes.
I stuff my earbuds into my pocket and watch Declan Steele talk to the hostess. Give her my name. Tell her he’s here to see me.
She gestures to the back of the tapas bar. His gaze swings to me, and I grin instantly.
My smile has a mind of its own with him.
The rest melts away. He’s all I see, striding toward me, looking more handsome than he did the day we met. His beard is neat and trim, like when I saw him after the Rookie of the Year award—the perfect amount of hair that I want to feel against my face and my thighs. He knows I like it, and I kind of hope he’s wearing it that way for me.
Dark jeans hug his legs, and a hunter green Henley snuggles his chest and big arms. Hell, that shirt is an unfair advantage. That man doesn’t need any muscle-enhancing clothes on that strong body.
The body I want to feel against me.
Those dark eyes are locked on me the whole time as he crosses the bar, as if I’m the target in his crosshairs. He stares at me like he wants to take me apart.
With his tongue.
Yes, please.
When he reaches the table, I’m not sure if I should stand and hug him, or just let him take a seat like I would Crosby, or Chance, or Sullivan.
But since he’s none of those guys, I go with my gut.
Seems to be the day for that.
I slide out, stand, and give him a one-armed hug like we did at the agency party.
“Hey there,” he says, low and smoky, in a voice that sends a red-hot shiver all over.
No, make that white-hot as his nose brushes subtly against my neck—so subtle no one else can see, but I can feel it—and he draws a quick hit of me.
“Mmm.” That’s all he says. But it’s enough to fry all my circuits.