A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,100
the stairs, in my flat, and slamming the door shut just as he parks himself on his couch, unzipping his trousers and taking out his cock.
I don’t even make it to the couch. I’m standing against the door, one hand on the phone, the other unzipping my jeans. In seconds, I’m stroking my dick and watching Fitz take his length in his hand, and it all feels so damn right.
Like this is where I’m supposed to be.
Reconnecting with him.
“Look at you,” he growls as he watches me jerking myself. “God, I missed that. I miss you. Want to have my hands on you right now, my mouth everywhere.”
I’m already breathing hard, close to the edge, pleasure blasting through my veins as I watch him shuttling his fist up and down his cock, sitting like a king on his couch in that suit, looking so powerful. “I want to get on my knees right now. Take you in my mouth,” I tell him, my voice hoarse with desire.
“Yes, that. Fuck, I want that.” His eyes squeeze shut, and he groans his release. The sight of him coming in his hand sends me over the edge as an orgasm rockets through my body.
I pant, groan, and slump against the door.
When I open my eyes, he’s sitting there, smirking. “I’m going to call you right back. I need to put on a new shirt,” he says.
“You do that.”
I hang up, head to the bathroom in this hazy, heady state, wash my hands, clean up. I return to the living room, flop down on the couch, and grab the phone when he calls back.
On video again.
“Hi,” I say.
He’s in his bedroom, the phone balanced on the bureau, and he’s sliding his strong arms into a crisp, starched shirt. “Do I look more civilized?”
“I don’t know how I’d keep my hands off you if I saw you wearing a suit in person.”
He finishes sliding the top shirt button into the hole. “Don’t ever say such a horrible thing. Keep your hands off me? That’s crazy talk.”
“Utter insanity. My hands would be all over you,” I say with a smile. I park a palm behind my head, and he knots his tie again.
His gaze snags on mine. “You like watching me get dressed, don’t you?”
“I do,” I say.
“If you were here, would you tie my tie for me?”
“I absolutely would. Though I make no promises about whether I would put it on or take it off.”
“Babe, I would just love if you were here,” he says, soft and tender.
“Me too. But you’re playing great. I’m proud of you,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“How’s your pact? Aren’t you breaking it by talking to me?”
Fitz shrugs. “Maybe. Don’t care anymore. Don’t care at all.”
“Thank you for the jukebox. That was incredible.” He deserves a million thank-yous.
“Does she like it?”
“She loves it. You made a very happy Maeve,” I say, as he finishes with the tie.
“I’m going to the arena now. Come with me?”
I laugh. “Sure, Fitz. Take me in the car.”
“If you were here, would you come to my game?”
“I would.”
Fitz leaves his place, locks the door, and heads down the hall to a mirrored brass elevator.
As he makes his way to the game, I talk to him the whole time—about New York and hockey and life and missing him and missing me. When he arrives at the arena, he asks, “Can I call you later?”
“You better.”
He gets out of the car, thanks the driver, then says to me, “Dean . . .”
My name is full of heat and need and want. I say his back the same way. “Fitz.”
He smiles at me. “I love you. That is all.”
“I love you,” I tell him, and when the call ends, I think I understand how it feels to be happy again.
The question is what to do about it.
We fall into a rhythm, just like we did when Fitz was here.
We talk at night—we FaceTime, we get off. We talk again in the morning. We text during the day.
He no longer cares about the pact.
He’s playing great, and he says it’s because I give him a good luck charm before every game. That’s what he calls it now when I dirty talk him before he heads to the ice. It’s our thing, and it works.
One night, after I tell him about a book I just finished, he says he has special news for me. He holds up a sheet of paper. “I asked the team doc to test for everything.”