The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,17
nibble on your shoulder. Use my teeth.”
A soft moan floats past her lips. I let my eyes travel along her body. “One more thing. I like the sneak peek of your legs,” I say, gesturing to the flesh of her thighs, then to her mouth. “And I like your lips. I’d like to know how they feel on mine.”
“Would you now?” She runs a finger across her lower lip, then stretches her arm to me, brushing that finger across my lips.
I bite it.
She gasps.
I am officially a furnace, and I need to get out of here with this woman ASAP. “But you know why I like all of that, Bryn?” Our faces are inches apart as the music plays and glasses clatter, and heat wraps around me. “I like the things you say. I like the way I feel with you. And I’d like to ask you that question again.”
“Ask me that question.” Her eyes darken, locking with mine.
“Would you like to go home with me right now?”
I wait.
But not for long.
She parts her lips, runs her tongue over her teeth, then nods. “Yes.”
I’m ready to leap from the chair and jetpack to my place.
“But there’s something I want to tell you,” she adds.
I tense. Shit. This is the moment. This is the moment where she confesses that she likes to fuck oranges while wearing a Nixon mask. That happens on dates, right? I should have prepped. Should have girded myself for every damn thing that could go wrong. Because that’s what happens with relationships—they go south, they go sour, they curl up and die.
I do my best to brace for whatever’s coming. “Sure. Tell me.”
In a soft but certain voice, she says, “I’m not into missionary position.”
I blink. I was not expecting that little nugget of sexiness to fall into my lap.
But it’s here. And I like it. And my dick loves it too. “Duly noted. There are plenty of other positions,” I say, grinning wildly because we are already talking about how we like it, something my ex never wanted to discuss, but something I’ve very much wanted to put on the table. “Any in particular that you do like? Or do you want me to discover them?” I ask, and I hope she wants the same things I do.
Her eyes twinkle. “Let’s see if this aids in your discovery. I don’t like missionary, and I don’t like being on top.”
I believe I know what’s behind door number three.
Bryn wants to be dominated.
And that’s what I want to do to her.
I pay the bill, take her hand, and speak softly in her ear as I walk her out of Gin Joint. “I’d like to put you on your hands and knees.”
“And will you do bad things to me?”
“Bad things that make you feel very, very good.”
She shivers, sliding closer to me, giving her yes to all the good and bad things with her body sealed to mine.
7
Logan
My place is too far. That’s obvious the second I tell her I’m on the Upper East Side.
She tips her forehead toward Fourteenth Street. “West Village for me. I win.”
I slide a hand down her back, over her ass, squeezing.
Her breath hitches as I say, “Let’s grab a car.”
In less than a minute, we slide into a black Toyota, our getaway Lyft.
“How ya doing?” The driver’s thick New Jersey accent and satin Jets jacket make his allegiances clear.
“Doing great,” I say, as Bryn buckles in and my eyes linger on her lips. I haven’t even kissed her yet, and I’d like to right now. But not in some guy’s Toyota.
“Having a good Sunday night?” the driver asks.
“Pretty good so far,” Bryn chimes in, an inviting note at the end of her words as her eyes meet mine. “We’ll see if it holds up.”
“As I like to say, how the night ends is always the measure of a good day,” the guy says, with a don’t I know it chuckle. “Me, I’m gonna watch some SportsCenter and have a cheese pie when my shift is over.”
Bryn meets my gaze, nibbling on the corner of her lips. “That does sound like a good end to a night. Who doesn’t love pizza?”
“Nothing better,” the man says.
“What kind of pizza?” Bryn asks.
“Your night will be better than pizza,” I whisper to the woman next to me. Then, to give her a preview, I run a hand up her arm. I could hold her hand. I could spread my palm across her thigh. But I don’t think