A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,123
say, as I brush my lips downward then nip the flesh of his neck.
He shivers, then closes his eyes. “What you do to me . . .” His voice trails off.
“And what exactly do I do to you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
He groans as I say his name, since he loves whenever I use it. Any and all variations of it. “You turn me on, Dean.”
“Good answer.”
“You’re the only one I want.”
I bend my face to him again, rubbing my day-old stubble against his neck. “Good. Because all my fantasies are about you too.”
“Tell me another one,” he says, adjusting himself in his chair, his eyes still closed, the expression on his face one of clear arousal.
“Some are pretty simple. Right now, I’d take you back to the room. Throw you on the bed. Tease your stomach with little kisses. Nibble on your thighs. Bite your arse. Lick you. Torment you. Not even touch your cock till you were begging.”
He opens his eyes, narrowing them. “You’re so cruel.”
“That may be true, but you’d be rewarded for enduring my cruelty.”
“How so?”
“I’d put you on your hands and knees, get inside you,” I say, as his expression goes slack-jawed. “Cover your body with mine. Take you. Please you. Fuck you. And finish what I’m starting right here.”
Fitz sits up straight, blinking, sex written in his eyes. “Now. Do that to me now.” He reaches into his wallet, fishes around for some kroner, and tosses them on the table. Then he grabs my hand, tugging at me.
I lift my beer. It’s half full. “I’m not done. Don’t you want to enjoy the scenery some more?”
“I want to enjoy your scenery.”
I hold up a finger, making him wait as I take another swallow, even though I want that fantasy as badly as he does. Then I set the glass down, as his eyes sear me, like he’s saying he’s going to punish me for making him wait another damn second to deliver.
If hot, hard, hungry sex with my husband is a punishment, then I’ll be bad every day.
And in our hotel room, we’re so bad that it’s damn good as we enjoy the scenery so very much, exactly as I told him we would.
Later that night, when we head out to dinner at a swank new eatery Naveen raved about, Fitz drapes an arm around me, as a couple of guys walk past us, looking our way. “They want what we have,” he says, all confident, as he often is.
“Yeah? What’s that? Reservations at a hard-to-get-into restaurant? It did take me some finagling to snag it.”
He stops, cups my cheeks, and looks me in the eyes. He goes serious. Intensely so. “Do you have any idea how fucking amazing it is to know that one person can be everything to you?”
My heart thumps harder. I match his tone when I answer. “I do.”
“It’s incredible that one person can be it for you. Can be your great and fantastic love.”
And the organ beats louder, only for him. My voice softens to a whisper as I look at the man I love. “I know what you mean. I have mine, and it is fucking amazing to be with you.”
“Same, babe. It’s the same for me.”
We continue on, walking down the street, wrapped up in each other.
This is happiness, and I’ve got it.
We’ve got it in each other.
The next summer we go to Italy. We have more to celebrate. Not just a one-year anniversary.
But a Stanley Cup.
Fitz is still pretty over the moon about winning it. Understandable. Though he said his favorite part was when I wore his jersey to the winning game.
Not true.
I didn’t. I just wore a team jersey.
But he has an active imagination, and he pretends I wore his number. I let him have this fantasy. I let him have all his fantasies.
Since most of his mirror mine.
The following summer, we go back to England for a few weeks, then to Prague and Amsterdam.
It’s everything we once imagined it would be.
And when we return to New York, the next season starts. He’s busy again, and so am I.
But we text and talk, and I video chat him the morning he turns thirty, since he’s in Toronto for the last game in a long road trip.
He stretches in his hotel bed. “I’m so sad I can’t have a birthday morning BJ.”
“I’m devastated too. I can’t think of a better present to give you.” But, in fact, I have other gifts for him.