A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,16
the way he kisses me.
He fucks my mouth with his tongue, owning my lips, consuming me.
My hands race around him, grabbing that firm, tight ass, yanking him impossibly closer as he devours my lips . . . and we fit.
We fit together, and it’s electric.
And I have no doubt when we finally make it to the bedroom—and we will make it to the bedroom—that it will be the hottest sex of my life.
Because my head goes hazy and my body heats to supernova levels just from the way he kisses me. From how he grabs my face and yanks me close. From the way he wants to resist me but can’t whatsoever.
And the moans he makes with every stroke of his wicked tongue.
His lips are hungry, and his hands are strong, grappling at me the way I like, all rough and demanding. This kiss is frying my circuits, and I want nothing on earth more than to take him back to my hotel and do very bad things to him.
Seems he wants that too.
The need to get out of here wars with my need to kiss the breath out of him.
The door downstairs clangs, followed by voices, then footsteps on the stairs.
We break apart, panting, wildly aroused.
I smirk, glance down at my crotch. “Hope that goes down quickly, but that probably won’t happen.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “One of the many hazards of having a dick.”
There’s that dry sense of humor again. How is it possible to go from wanting to tear his clothes off to relishing his laugh?
But that seems par for the course around Dean.
The voices are drunken, unsteady, but working their way up the stairs.
Stepping away from him, I pick up the fallen bat as a group of twentysomething women bursts onto the scene, chatting with each other. A bartender follows them and glances our way. This wasn’t going to stay private for long anyway.
“Here you go,” I say, passing off the bat to a blonde.
She glances at me and blinks. “Hey, aren’t you that guy from . . .”
She snaps her fingers, trying to place me. “From, ugh . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
She’s American and maybe a hockey fan, but it’s hard to say.
My preferences are no secret, so I’m not trying to hide. Nor do I think Dean is. But I’d rather not chat with a fan while I’m sporting this kind of wood.
“Nah. I get that a lot though. Go knock in some homers, ladies.” I wink at them as I head to the stairs, Dean behind me.
“Does that happen a lot? Being recognized or almost recognized?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. Not as much as basketball or baseball players though.” I gesture to my face. “Since we wear masks and all.”
“Yes, I am aware of that aspect of hockey. Masks and all,” Dean says, imitating my voice.
I shoot him an appreciative grin. “Ooh, aren’t you so very cheeky.”
“Charming, Fitz. I’m charming. Get it right,” he says, then his tone turns serious, and he tips his forehead to the roof, indicating the girls. “But what I was getting at about being recognized is, did you deny it’s you for a reason? Are you in the closet?”
I bust out laughing as we bound down the stairs, shaking my head. “Not in the motherfucking least.”
Dean wipes a hand across his forehead. “Good, because I do not need to deal with that.”
“Nor do I. Been there, done that, not interested. Closet’s not my thing.”
“Ditto. For a second, I thought maybe you came to England to avail yourself of opportunities to be . . . out of the spotlight.”
“It’s not a secret.” I flash a grin. “I’m kind of known for it, as one of a handful of out players in the NHL.”
“That’s good.”
The smile on his face tells me it’s hella good, and I’m damn glad he’s in the same sitch. But it’s good to make sure. “I assumed you’re out too. But if that makes an ass out of you and me, maybe tell me now.”
He laughs. “You might be an ass on other counts, but not on that one. I don’t care if anyone sees me turning you on. As I clearly do.”
I roll my eyes, stop at the bottom of the stairs, and grab his waist. I wrap a hand around his hip. “You love to give me a hard time.”
Dean’s gaze drifts down to my jeans and back up. “Seems I’m quite good at it too.”