A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,53

it,” he says, slowing down, turning the pace into a sensual striptease, a visual feast.

My skin is tingling everywhere. Beads of sweat slide down my chest. And my hands feel so good wrapped around his ass, squeezing those strong, firm cheeks as I stare at the two of us.

This man owns my pleasure.

And he’s determined to wring every last drop from me.

That’s all I want. To be consumed by what he’s doing to me. Because he’s doing everything. He’s giving and taking and fucking my cock so damn good that the switch flips in me.

“Dean,” I warn. “I need to come really fucking soon. Are you almost there?”

“Seconds away,” he says.

“Good. Let me fuck you hard now,” I say, then smack his ass. “Get on your hands and knees.”

“Only because you asked nicely,” he says.

Keeping the condom in place, I pull out, my dick whimpering at the momentary loss of contact.

Then, after Dean’s in the perfect position to finish, I get behind him, slide right back home, and I know—I just know—this is how sex should be.

It should always be this intense.

This electric.

This out of this world.

Because I am out of my mind with desire, eaten alive by it as I kneel behind him, thrusting into him, taking his hard cock in my hand, where it belongs.

And I stare at the two of us in the mirror, my body curled over his.

But then, I get the bright idea to yank him up so we’re both kneeling, his back pressed tight to my stomach, one arm of mine looped under his. My other hand is on his dick, my cock buried deep, so damn deep in his body as I fuck this sexy, filthy, fantastic man to release.

As I come so damn hard inside him.

As he climaxes all over my hand, groaning my name.

The pleasure just crashes over me in wave after wave of never-ending bliss.

We collapse, a hot sticky mess on the bed, and I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

I slide out, keeping the condom on, but not wanting to let go of him as we pant and breathe and moan.

And I tell myself it’s just the sex I’ll miss.

It’s just the hottest sex of my life that I’ll long for.

And I almost believe it.

Almost.

But not quite.

21

Dean

A little later, I down a glass of scotch, savoring the last satisfying drop. “A shag, a scotch. What could be better?”

Fitz sets down his empty glass, reaches for the remote, and flicks on the TV. “SportsCenter?”

I sink onto the bed, flinging a hand over my eyes. “Dear God. No. Just no.”

Fitz cracks up. “I’m not that much of a dick. I won’t subject you to SportsCenter.” He tosses the remote on the floor. “Do you really hate sports?”

I remove my hand from my eyes. “Sports are great. I just don’t want to watch sports news in bed with you.”

He wiggles a brow. “I get it. There are better things to do.”

“Yes, that. And I’m sure we’ll be recharged shortly.”

“So, what do you want to do in bed with me, then?”

I glance at the tumbler. “Drinking scotch is fun. But if you really want to watch television, I’d rather watch a comedy on Netflix or something.”

His blue eyes twinkle. “Dark comedy?”

“Love it.”

“British comedy?”

“Of course.”

“Sitcoms?”

“With no laugh track.”

Grinning, he offers me a hand to high-five, and I smack it back. “Laugh tracks suck,” he says. Stretching across me, Fitz reaches for his phone, clicks on Netflix, and scrolls through the newest comedies. We find one that interests us both, a show about a group of friends too tangled up in each other’s lives.

Fitz clicks play and then settles in next to me, his head on the pillow beside mine. His body fits snugly against me, his arm draped across my shoulders.

Everything about this moment screams opposite of hookup, yet that calendar mercilessly flipping forward reminds me that it’s safe to enjoy this moment, since it’ll end soon.

Still, I can’t resist teasing him.

“You realize we’re both over six feet, and we’re in this little sliver of the bed,” I point out, staring at the other unused side of the king-size bed.

He grins, inching closer to me. “Are you saying you don’t want to snuggle with me after I fucked your brains out? Or are you trying to tell me diplomatically that I suck at snuggling?”

I crack up. “Because that would be an insult to you? Being rubbish at snuggling?”

“I am not rubbish at snuggling, and you know it. I am an awesome snuggler,”