A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,57
still asleep, so I do something risky.
I text Maeve.
And I call in the biggest favor I’ve ever called in.
Dean: Gorgeous, wonderful, kind, all-knowing best friend of mine . . .
Maeve: You obviously want something.
Dean: I do. I need your help.
Maeve: Oh. You’re not joking. You’re serious. Hit me up.
Dean: What are the chances that you’d cover for me over the next few days? Call in one of our backups?
Maeve: IS THIS WHAT I THINK IT IS?
Dean: What do you think it is?
Maeve: You. Falling. Hard.
I scoff lightly at her note. Then I look at the man next to me. The ink climbing over his arms, his back. The scruff on his face. The way his hair sticks up as he sleeps.
Some kind of storm brews in my chest as I watch him, and I silently curse my best friend for being right.
Dean: All I’m saying is I would love a few days off. I will do any chore in the universe. I will get you your jukebox.
Maeve: Oh my God! You have no idea how much I want to say I told you so, but even my cold black heart won’t let me. I am just happy that you like him so much. (That IS why you want the time off? You want to spend it with the hockey hottie?)
Dean: Yes. I do.
Maeve: I’ll do it under one condition.
Dean: Name it.
Maeve: I want to meet your man.
Dean: He’s not my man.
Maeve: Don’t even try that poppycock with me. He so is. Bring him by. And yes, go have fun. I’m happy for you.
Dean: It’s just fun. It’s just a fling. But I’m enjoying it. And I want to enjoy every second of it.
Maeve: Sometimes a fling is all we need.
Maeve: To get a jukebox!!! Ha, I told you so!
Dean: You did. And I’m so glad.
When I set down the phone, Fitz is stretching, eyes floating open. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, all sleepy sexy.
A pang twinges in my chest because I want that Morning, sunshine again and again and again.
“Morning.”
He reaches for my waist, slinks an arm around me, then murmurs, “Don’t go.”
“Speaking of not going . . .” I take a deep breath, because this is huge for me. This is not something I ever saw myself doing. This feels like the riskiest step of all, and I don’t want him to slap back like he did yesterday.
But I understand Fitz more now.
And today already feels like an entirely new ball game.
He yawns, then waits for me.
Nerves crawl up my throat, but this hardly seems like the thing to be nervous over. He wants this. I want this.
And I’m the one who can make it happen—two full days together.
“I hope this isn’t presumptuous, but I arranged to take the next two days off.”
And the smile that takes over his face is the biggest reward ever. “Spend them with me.”
“Obviously, Fitz.”
A little later, I step into the shower, turning the tap as hot as it can go.
I grab a bar of soap and lather it across my chest. Steam fills the space, and I breathe it in.
Seconds later, the man I want opens the shower door. “Mind if I join you?” Fitz asks.
“I would mind if you didn’t.”
He steps in, giving me that incredible view that I’m already addicted to. I do more than admire.
I touch.
I rub the soap over him—first his pecs, then those perfect abs. I trace the grooves, my fingers traveling over every hard plane.
He groans his appreciation, and I move my hands to his broad shoulders, down his firm biceps, then along his roped forearms. I map his body, his muscles, his strength.
Taking the soap from me, Fitz does the same for me, and I savor the treatment, the attention from his talented hands. He sets down the soap in the soap dish as the steam enrobes us. His hands travel down my chest again, lazily tracing my stomach, and he moves closer, wraps his hand around my length, his fingers curling nice and tight.
I return the favor and give the man what he wants. Contact. With me. Touch. From me.
He shivers the second I grip his hard-on, then lets out a long, contented rumble. As the water streams over us, we stay like that for a minute or two, taking our time, playing and stroking. Enjoying each other.