Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I copy his move at the strip club and ask for the same. I want to taste what's on his lips. I want to live in his world for a minute. No, in my fantasy world.
Where he wears old-timey suits and banters like Cary Grant and drinks whiskey in a wide glass.
Even so, I tease him about the beverage. "Did you get that from Mad Men?" I ask as the bartender stirs our drinks.
Jackson laughs with surprise. "The TV show?"
I nod. "You dress like Don Draper." He does wear a lot of suits. And that watch. He's always in that watch.
Of course, Jackson has no idea who I'm talking about. He shakes his head. "I dress like who?"
"The lead character."
"On the television program Mad Men?"
"Yes." I laugh. "It was a popular show. A lot of people watched it."
"Ten years ago," he says.
"Is Jackson Steele teasing me about my pop culture knowledge?" My chest flares. My cheeks too. It's not embarrassment though. It's a mix of desire and affection and that strange, perfect feeling that only comes from someone teasing you in a way that means they really know you and like your quirks.
"If the shoe fits." He nods and presses his lips into a coy smile.
My heart thuds against my chest. How can a joke feel so good, so erotic and romantic and butterfly-inducing? I just blew him in the limo. But this feels personal in a different way. A deeper way.
Sex is personal, of course, but conversation is a different sort of intimacy. Knowing someone's mind and soul, not just their body.
Intellectual intercourse. That's a line in an Alanis Morrisette song. It's an idea we need to examine further. After all, the brain is the largest sex organ in the body, and the man is as good with his brain as his other parts.
Why is that so sexy?
A smart guy. Maybe it's the glasses. Or maybe it's him.
No. It's definitely him.
"And what modern television references do you have?" I tease him back.
"I don't dress like anyone," he says. "I dress like me."
"Well, Don Draper dresses like you do. On the weekends at least."
The bartender drops off our drinks with a nod. "I'd say more like Roger Sterling on the weekends."
"Who is that?" Jackson asks.
"Don's boss and best friend," I say.
"They're both charming womanizers, but Don is a con man and Roger is a sales guy, so, same difference really," the bartender says. "But Roger is old money and Don grew up in poverty. His mom was a sex worker. Not that it's a tragedy. My mom was a sex worker and I turned out fine. A lot of us Vegas born and bred guys are the same."
Wow, there's so much to unpack there, so much research potential, but I don't care enough to linger. There's too much to do. Well, there's Jackson.
That's the only thing on my to-do list.
But it's an urgent item.
I wrap my arm around his waist.
He leans into the touch as he checks out. "I've never seen the show." Jackson hands the guy his credit card. "But I agree. Nothing wrong with your mom having any job."
The guy nods I know, right. "A lot of guys order old-fashioneds 'cause Don Draper did it. They think women will find them hot if they act like Don. But women didn't drop their panties for Don because he drinks too much whiskey. They drop their panties because John Hamm is hot." He looks to me as he runs the card. "Do you remember those paparazzi shots of John jogging?"
Jackson looks between us, confused.
I have to laugh. "There was a very visible outline in his sweatpants."
"It became a meme. Look at all these pictures where we can see John's dick." The bartender shakes his head. "And people think Vegas has no class."
On a different night, I'd love this trip down celebrity memory lane. I'd even borrow Cassie's argument about the upskirt pictures from the two thousands making John's dick fair game. It's just the outline! It's not like they snuck into his shower.
But right now, I really don't care.
I don't care about anyone else's dick.
Only Jackson's.
"True," I say. "Thanks." I wave goodbye to the bartender, take my drink, and lead Jackson outside.
On the patio, the decorations are lusher, more vibrant. The sky grows a bright shade of indigo. The pool shimmers in the moonlight. The azure is a bright contrast against the potted palm trees and the birds of paradise.
I find a semi-private spot behind an ivy-colored booth with a high back.
No one can see us from the bar. Or the pool. Only if they get right in front of the space.
We have room to do whatever we want.
Jackson notices the sex-in-semi-public-friendly setting and smiles. "Did we go straight from the bachelor party to the honeymoon?"
"Maybe. That's the best part of marriage, isn't it?"