Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“You know that’s all I want. Evening, night, morning,” he whispers.
“Take it. They’re yours,” I say.
“Consider it done.”
His fingers spread over my thigh and my dick twitches in my jeans, thumping against the fabric.
Get closer, it’s saying.
Now, fucking now.
Seconds later, the cheery waitress returns, deposits the margaritas and says, “Here you go. Need anything else?”
“A fire extinguisher?” I say, under my breath.
She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“A couple glasses of ice for my friend?” Declan suggests, all deadpan as he slides his palm along my thigh, turning me inside out with lust. I grit my teeth so I don’t moan.
“Of course,” she says.
He shakes his head, squeezing my leg harder. “Actually, we’re just fine. Thanks for these virgin margaritas.”
“You’re very welcome,” she says, then spins on her heels and walks off.
Once she’s gone, he slowly turns his gaze back to me. His dark eyes glimmer with reckless desire, with years of longing.
Same here.
Same fucking here.
I arch a skeptical brow. “Friend? I’m your friend?”
He shoots me a sly smile. “Yeah. You’re my friend. I want you to be my friend,” he says, and the damn butterfly brings its friends to my chest now. They are swarming me. “But I’m pretty sure you’re about to be my lover again too. And that’s also what I want.”
“I want that as well,” I say, and my answer makes his eyes spark with something like happiness.
His fingers graze my thigh, and I nearly lose my mind from the way he touches me under the table, the way his hand slides closer to my crotch. I’m throbbing for him.
Desperate.
With his right hand, he lifts the margarita glass. With his left, he travels across to the hard ridge in my jeans, then presses the heel of his palm on my erection.
Shuddering, I bite my lip. Pleasure rumbles everywhere in my body.
I try to keep my eyes open, but I want to close them and sink into this sensation.
His touch.
For a few seconds, I let go, shutting my eyes, feeling like I’m in another world. One of dirty, filthy bliss.
When I open them, the glass is near his lush mouth. “I wonder how it really tastes on your lips,” he muses.
“Bet you want to find out,” I tease.
Declan takes his time before saying anything. He just rubs the outline of my cock while he stares at my mouth. “Bet I will.”
Then he removes his hand from my jeans, and I unleash a groan of blue-balled frustration.
But relief too. Not sure how long I could have handled that.
And yet I also want to handle everything.
I want the tease. I want the time. I want him to toy with me all night long. And I want to toy with him. Drive him as wild as he drives me.
“Let’s talk and not-drink first,” Declan says.
“I’ll not-drink to that,” I say, then raise the glass and clink it to his.
Before he takes a sip, he studies our glasses, touching each other. I can tell he’s hunting for something to toast to.
I asked him out, so I wait for him to toast. This is our give-and-take. I want to know how we take steps toward each other.
His lips quirk. Then he says, “To new beginnings?”
He’s not sexy, naughty Declan right now. He’s the vulnerable guy I fell in love with once upon a time.
A guy I’m pretty sure I could fall wildly in love with again.
“To new beginnings,” I repeat, then take a virgin drink.
26
Declan
I blame the margarita.
It cools me off, and the drink helps me turn down the heat of the moment. That’s good, in a way, because I want to take my time tonight. I want to enjoy every second of this evening out with Grant Blackwood.
This night feels like it exists in its own sultry, hazy, sexy plane of existence. But I’m acutely aware, and I suspect he is too, that if we stand a chance of having something real this time around, it needs to start with more than flirting.
More than sex.
It needs to start with hard truths.
That’s where I begin after I drain the glass. “I started seeing someone in the last year,” I say.
Grant blanches, his eyes bugging out. “What?”
I reach for his hand to reassure him but pull back at the last second, realizing I shouldn’t touch him like this in public. Not until we’ve figured out the new ground rules for that, and all that a public touch, not an under-the-table one, entails. “A therapist,” I quickly correct.
He breathes in deep relief. “You asshole. You scared the fuck out of me.”
I laugh, diffusing the tension. “I’d never do that. I meant—I’m seeing a therapist. Her name is Carla. She’s fantastic and wise and insightful. And she’s helping me with a ton of things.”
Grant’s grin is different from the ones he flashed my way earlier. Different, too, from the I’m happy to see you smile, or the you’re turning me inside out one. It’s warm, authentic, and seems to come straight from the heart. “That’s awesome. How did you decide? Is it okay to ask you that?” he asks.