A Guy Walks Into My Bar - Lauren Blakely Page 0,83
me, you sexy fucking man.”
I dignify that command with a hot, wet kiss that lasts until the redhead returns with our drinks.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” she coos as she sets them down. Then she lowers her voice. “And I’m Vicky. I’m off at one if you two want to make it a fun night.”
Fitz clears his throat and wraps an arm around me. “Thanks, love,” he says in his Harry Potter accent. “But we’re going to pass.”
She wiggles her fingers. “Maybe another time.”
And when she leaves, he mouths, Maybe another time, my ass.
I lift my glass. “I will drink to that, for sure.”
He gestures to my cocktail. “Also, you think maybe your drink gave her the idea we’d take her home? What’s in that thing?”
I look at the glass. “Irish cream, Irish whiskey, Irish stout. The only threesome I want.”
My date clinks his to mine, then he dips into his accent again, muttering, “Thanks, love.”
And I imitate him when I say, “But we’re going to pass.”
We finish our drinks as the music slides into another round of pop, until “The Time of My Life” plays, and his blue eyes twinkle with mischief.
Fitz nods to the corner of the club. Men and women flock to the dance floor, some of them coupled up with arms around each other and some shimmying in groups, all of them eager to get their groove on to one of the most cliché dance songs of all time.
Fitz wiggles his brows in an invitation. He expects me to be one of those people.
“Not a chance,” I say.
“You don’t dance?”
“Not to this song. And not well.”
“Who cares? Not me. Not about either of those things.”
“I do,” I say, but Fitz has started making circles on my thigh, making it very difficult to argue my point.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s dance.”
“Let me guess—you’re a spectacular dancer.”
He shrugs with a cocky grin. “I’m not bad.”
“Liar,” I say. “You’re good at everything, with your perfect body.”
He leans in and whispers close to my ear, still making those circles that move dangerously high on my thigh. “You’re one to talk, with your smoking-hot bod,” he says, and the song shifts again. The DJ used a crowd-pleaser to lure more clubgoers to the floor, but now the music shifts to a slow but steady beat.
Leon Bridges.
“Now you have no excuse,” Fitz insists, standing up. “Even you can dance to this.”
“Do you always get your way?”
“I got you, didn’t I?” he says wolfishly.
“Maybe I’m easy,” I tease.
“Maybe you’re hard,” he fires back.
“Around you, that’s an accurate assessment.”
He glances down to where he was tracing those maddening circles on me. In an imitation of my accent, he says, “Why don’t you let me assess it right now?”
I groan, trying to suppress a laugh at his humor, his insistence. “And you think that’s going to get me to dance with you?”
He leans in and nips my earlobe. “I want to dance with you, babe,” he whispers, then flicks his tongue against me, letting out a low, husky “Please.”
And that’s enough. I’m evidently powerless to resist him.
I take his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor. His arms circle my hips. Mine land on his shoulders as we sway together.
Around us, some of the groups of friends have peeled off, but most of them have paired up. They lean into each other, some more closely than others.
Fitz nods at the couples around us. “Do you care if someone looks at us?”
My brow knits. “Because you’re famous?”
He laughs, then turns serious again. “Do you care because we’re two guys?”
“We are? News to me,” I say, being cheeky.
He yanks me closer. “Smart-ass. But do you?”
I laugh, shaking my head, but I’m truly shocked that he’s asking something he must know the answer to. “Is that a real question? You kissed me in the booth ten minutes ago. The server propositioned us. You have your hands on me constantly. You’ve been kissing me in public since I met you. You kissed me on the street outside that wretched softball bar, and on Tower Bridge. You had your arm around me on the boat. We made out in the doorway of my building. All we do is touch all the time. You think I’m suddenly shy?”
He smiles, almost like he’s embarrassed. “I know, babe. It just makes me happy to do it. It makes me happy to know you like it.”
My heart stutters. “Just being ourselves?”
“Yeah. It’s like a reminder of why it’s good to be out.