The Dating Proposal Read online

  “You’re perfect,” I whisper reverently, because his body ought to be worshipped.

  “You are,” he says, then we tumble onto the bed while he reaches for a condom on the nightstand.

  He rolls it on. He’s beautiful, every inch of him, and he’s so sexy as he prepares to enter me. I place my hands on his shoulders, but then he shifts so he’s on his back. He moves me on top of him.

  “Let me watch you ride me,” he murmurs.

  “I might watch you too.”

  “Feel free.” He grins and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his hands traveling to my hips as he positions me over his length.

  I lower myself onto him, gasping when he slides inside. I draw a sharp intake of breath, close my eyes, and let the feeling of him filling me up take over my mind and body. I open my eyes again and look down at him. His expression is tense, his jaw tight.

  “That feels so fucking good,” he says.

  A wave of lust crashes over me, knowing he wants me the way I want him. This is the dating dream. To meet someone you connect with in every way.

  I move slowly at first, taking my time, rising up and down. I savor the feel of him inside me, stretching me. It’s a deliciously lazy kind of rhythm, in and out, long and leisurely strokes as I swivel my hips, riding him.

  He groans as I move, as I take him in deep. Gritting his teeth, he grunts like he needs more.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper.

  Then we’re not so leisurely. He picks up the pace, thrusting, pushing, driving deeper. He’s hitting me in all the right spots, and my mind goes hazy, my body burns hot.

  Sparks fly over my skin, racing through my veins. I close my eyes, because reality is too intense right now to have to see it. I want to feel, only to feel. I lean down to kiss him, and he draws me against him, my breasts pressing into his chest, his hands grabbing my ass.

  Being this close to him trips a switch in me. Pleasure tightens and intensifies, a warning signal. “I have to tell you something,” I whisper.

  “Tell me.”

  “I think I’m going to come again. Really soon. Can you go a little harder? Faster?”

  A groan takes over him as he thrusts harder, pumps up into me. “I can fuck you however you want. I can fuck you fast and dirty.”

  “Yes.” Pleasure zips down my spine as he fucks up into me, rocking his hips, driving me wild. Sending me racing to the edge.

  My belly tightens. It coils, and I’m tipped over, past the point of no return, as another orgasm washes over me.

  I shudder, crying out in pleasure and then in surprise when he pulls out, flips me to my back, and drives into me again. He hikes up my thigh, going deeper and chasing his own release.

  Digging my nails into his back, I urge him on. “I want to feel you come,” I say, growly and desperate for his release.

  There’s something incredibly freeing about sex with Chris.

  It’s wild and open and honest.

  And I want his pleasure as much as I want my own.

  The sounds he makes are carnal and filthy. He’s nothing but a string of grunts and curse words, and I love it. I absolutely love his abandon. And the filthiest word of all is yes. That’s all he says—a long, raw, brutal yes—as he comes hard and deep inside me.

  A minute later, after we stop panting like we’ve run a race, he tosses the condom, returns to my side, and runs his fingers down my stomach. “So, you still want to play my Q*bert?”

  I laugh out loud, not expecting those words but loving how perfect they actually are. “Only if you think I’ll score as well as I did just now.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  26

  Chris

  This might be my new favorite sight ever.

  The beautiful naked woman playing a game I built.

  Wait. Let me revise that.

  The beautiful naked woman who called out my name, who’s completely awesome, and who’s as into me as I’m into her playing a game I built.

  Yes, that’s what makes the sight fantastic.

  Right now, as I relax on the couch, I’m enjoying the view a helluva lot. Her ass is spectacular, all heart-shaped and soft where it needs to be and firm where it ought to be, and so tempting.

  As if she’s worshipping the console, she runs a hand across the control panel, stroking the joystick against her palm. Her fingers trace the name in its big balloon-y print. Resting her cheek against the screen, she sighs contentedly.

  “You sure you don’t want me to leave you alone with it?” I tease.

  “Yes, please. I need several moments,” she says then jerks her head up, clearly distracted by the Galaga machine to the right and the Donkey Kong next to that.

  “My God, you have your own arcade, Chris.”

  I park my hands behind my head. “Would you be impressed if I told you I built them all myself?”

  Her eyes pop. “You built all these arcade games?”

  “You make it sound like I made a time machine out of a DeLorean. It wasn’t that hard.”

  “Wasn’t that hard?” she parrots back. “How do you make an arcade game?”

  “I dusted off a computer, found some source code from a non-profit development project that preserves old arcade games, tweaked it up a bit, and then built the cabinet.”

  “This is amazing. You can fix and you can build. You have some serious skills.”

  “That is true. I’ve already introduced you to some of my finest ones tonight. Now get playing, woman, so I can give you another orgasm.”

  A wicked smile stretches across her gorgeous face. “This is the first time I’ve ever played it wanting to get killed, but with you dangling that kind of prize . . .”

  “The way I see it is you win either way—you get the high score or you score again.”

  “That’s definitely what I call a win/win.” She winks, spins back around, feeds the machine a quarter from a stack on the console, and goes to town, jamming on the joystick.

  Gamer that she is, she doesn’t just roll over. She plays hard, and it’s hot as hell watching her.

  So hot that by the time she finally plummets off the side of the pyramid, I’m good and ready for another round in bed, and she is too.

  This time, we’re slower. We take our time, kissing as we go, exploring each other. She’s warm and pliant, and as she lifts her knees higher and pulls me in deeper, it feels like she’s giving herself to me. It feels like I could do this with her for many, many nights. Nights I don’t want to end.

  After we finish, I ask her to stay over.

  “I was hoping you’d extend an invitation,” she says, then hums a happy sound.

  She stretches out under the sheets, arranging herself for sleep, and I bring her against me, sighing at the feel of her warm skin against mine. She curls against me as moonlight sneaks through the blinds, casting a silver glow over her arms and shoulders.

  “I like you, Chris,” she says, her voice sleepy.

  I kiss the back of her neck. “I like you too. A lot.”

  “I’m glad you made me your mission tonight.”

  “I’m going to make you my mission on our next date too.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  I do too.

  I like the sound of all of this.

  As she falls asleep, I’m struck with the realization that we’re quickly zooming past no-strings-attached dating.

  And I don’t seem to mind the strings.

  The preliminary numbers are in. The segments are a hit. Viewers love the chemistry between McKenna and me. And more than that—they love her.

  That’s what Bruce tells us the next time we’re in the studio, ready to shoot again.

  “They’re going to want you to do a show all by yourself,” I tell her.

  She pokes my chest. “Don’t be silly. They’ll want me to take over for you.”

  “You know, Needle Arms, she has a darn good idea,” Bruce says with a glint in his eyes.

&nbs
p; “I’m cool with that. I can surf all day and eat my avocado toast with smashed beets anytime I want.”

  He cringes. “Ah, why do you do this to me? I’m going to have to eat some bacon to make up for hearing about your health food.”

  McKenna shoots me a curious look. “I take it he doesn't know about your penchant for orgasmic ketchup on your succulent fries?”

  Bruce’s eyes widen. “You’re secretly eating my kind of food?”

  I press a finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t tell my boss.”

  Bruce stage-whispers, “He already knows.” In his normal voice, he tells us the first question from viewers.

  I gulp.

  McKenna blushes.

  The question hits close to home.

  “You good with that?” Bruce inquires.

  I meet McKenna’s eyes. She nods her assent.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  A little later, we record.

  “And on today’s What to Do on a Date segment, Denny from St. Louis wants to know: When is it a good idea to sleep together on the first date?”

  The faint blush of pink on her cheeks delights me, and feels like both a secret and a statement. She looks to the camera as she answers the question we both have recent firsthand experience with. “I would say it’s a good idea if you’re two adults who communicate clearly about expectations. That’s the key—to talk. To be clear with each other.” She turns to me. “Don’t you think, Chris?”

  I rein in the grin, the ridiculous, oversized one threatening to occupy all the square footage of my face. “I do, McKenna. There’s never a guarantee as to what happens next, but as long as you can be straight from the get-go, that’s the best path. So each person knows the score.”

  “But remember, too, sometimes sex on the first date can be a terrible idea. And sometimes it can be a great idea. The difference usually lies not in the act itself, but in the talking about it beforehand.” Once more, she looks my way, a naughty twinkle in her blue eyes. “And if the sex is good, definitely do it again with a second date.”

  I shrug happily, pointing at her. “That’s what she said.”

  And that’s what we plan to do later that night. But first, we play mini golf. Per her advice, I wear flip-flops.

  She wiggles her butt as she preps to swing the club at a windmill.

  “Your shoes are fantastic,” I say, just as she lets loose.

  Her shot is all kinds of wrong. She shoots me a withering glare. “You’re trying to knock me off my game.”

  I shrug. “You’d expect nothing less of me.”

  She grumbles, narrowing her eyes. “I’m going to crush you, Chris McCormick.”

  “Be my guest,” I say as she lines up again. “Also, those jeans look great on you.”

  I’m the recipient of another sharp stare as she saunters over to me. “You are not playing fair. Complimenting my clothes to try to get me to balk.”

  “And it’s working.”

  She splays a hand across my stomach, dragging her fingertips in a way that revs my engine. “Two can play at that game.”

  I smile and haul her against me for a kiss. I’m intoxicated by her taste, buzzed on her, and having a great time. I flash back to earlier, what we both said in the studio. The key is to talk. That’s been the refrain of all our segments—be honest, be open, tell the truth.

  When I break the kiss, I cup her cheek. “I’m glad you were amenable to fun-dating.”

  “Me too.”

  “We should keep doing it.”

  “You angling for a third date already?”

  I smile. “Hell yeah.”

  She dances her fingers up my chest. “Good. Because I want a third one too.”

  The rest of the game, I’m a good boy. I don’t try to distract her with compliments or too many kisses. Instead, we talk as we go, chatting about her dog, and she tells me how much she’s relied on the pooch. I tell her about my friendship with Cooper. How we rib each other constantly, but how we’re also straight shooters when we need to be. She shares a few stories about her sister and their rabid love of cupcakes. I tell her about Jill, and how hard she’s worked for her shot on a Broadway stage.

  When we’re done, I’ve won the game.

  But it feels like we’ve both won something else.

  A normal, terrific, fantastic date, and neither one of us needed to order a lobster to get some good action.

  Because that’s what we have when we go home to her house. I say hi to her dog, then I get her clothes off in seconds flat, and I send her soaring.

  As she wraps her arms around me, I can feel my trust issues slipping out the door.

  Good riddance. I won’t miss them.

  27

  McKenna

  “Here’s one of my favorite parts of dating. I get to do what I like best—devote my mental energy to assembling cute outfit combos,” I say to the phone camera, then model the newest ensemble I’m wearing for tonight’s date with Chris: a swingy little skirt from ModCloth, silver Rag & Bone ankle boots, and a sapphire-blue top I snagged from the best place of all—Target. “Here’s the key—don’t forget that picking an outfit for the third date with a guy you really like is all about you. Sound selfish? Hardly. Wear what makes you feel pretty. Wear what makes you feel good about yourself. That’s what makes a great date outfit.”

  I click end then shoot another video, this one with tips for guys (Don’t wear what makes you feel pretty, wear what you think she’ll like). When I’m done, I head to my bedroom, take off the clothes, and leave them on my bed. I pull on a soft T-shirt and jeans and return to my living room, where Andy works diligently from my couch, Ms. Pac-Man commandeering the spot next to him, her snout resting on his leg.

  He pets her as he works. “I’m checking out the numbers. Looks like you’re definitely seeing an uptick in dudes, according to the site demographics,” he says, glancing up from his screen.

  “Excellent. Good to see the strategy is working. Would you mind sending that report to Kara at Redwood? I updated her the other day, but she can’t get enough of numbers going in the right direction, especially when it comes to men. That was one of the key goals for her investment.”

  I settle in at my desk, editing the videos for posting, humming an Elvis tune under my breath as I type. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Andy smirking.

  “Spill. What’s that little grin all about?” I stare at him over the screen of my laptop.

  “Oh, I was just curious how well your strategy is working.”

  My brow knits with confusion. “I thought you just said it was working.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No, the strategy where you don’t fall for the guy you’re dating.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say, choosing to play dumb because it’s easier than facing the stark truth.

  He rolls his eyes. “Seriously, girlfriend,” he says, adopting some over-the-top sass.

  “Seriously, guy-friend,” I mimic.

  “McKenna, you just sat there humming ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ as you worked.”

  I pretend to be outraged. “I did not.”

  He slices a hand through the air. “You did. Fess up. You’re falling for this guy in a major way.”

  I huff, shrugging. “I like him. A lot. What’s so wrong with that?”

  “Nothing is wrong with it. If it’s what you want. I’m just making sure you’re ready. You went into this dating project with a clear goal—to have fun again.”

  “And it is fun,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, dating is fun,” Andy says diplomatically as he pushes a shock of hair from his forehead. “Until feelings get involved.”

  “It’s not fun then?”

  “It can be. But it shifts. It becomes real.”

  “Is that why you prefer hookups?”

  He nods and gives a closed-mouth smile that strikes me as a little sad. “I’m no good at relationships. So I keep everything at a distance. But that’s my MO, and it has been for a
while. You’re wired differently. You’re wired for relationships, and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening with this guy. You’re falling into a relationship.”

  I glance away as if I’ve been caught. “I don’t think that’s the case.”

  “You truly don’t?”

  I steel myself, meeting his gaze again. “That would make me foolish. I’m not foolish. I’m practical. Chris and I made a deal. Just fun-dating. No-strings-attached dating. That means we’re not going to fall into a relationship.”

  “Fine. Just be careful. Watch your heart. I don’t want to see it get bruised again.”

  I cover the organ in question. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this baby on lockdown.”

  He barks a laugh, the kind that says he doesn't quite believe me. “Keep the key in a place only you can find. Okay?”

  “I promise.”

  A little later, I tell him I’m going to shower before my date.

  Looking at his watch, he says, “It’s only five.”

  “Well, sometimes a girl likes to take her time getting ready for her guy.”

  He closes his laptop, smirking. “Her guy.” As he speaks, he sketches air quotes. “Good luck on your ‘fun date.’”

  “It’ll be fun. It’s just a date. That’s all.”

  But as he leaves, I’m not so sure that’s true any longer.

  Or that I want it to be.

  I spend more time than usual getting ready. I shave my legs and spread the softest strawberry lotion into my skin, thinking of how it would feel if Chris’s hands were the ones on my legs right now.

  I tremble, picturing him kissing his way up my body. I blow out my hair, imagining his fingers twined through it.

  I do my makeup as I listen to all my favorite songs, like “I’ve Got a Crush on You” and “Fly Me to the Moon.” It’s as if I’m living in the lyrics, wrapped up in the hope they promise. I find myself swaying to the words as I swipe on my blush, imagining Chris behind me, his arms around my waist as he peppers kisses on my neck and we lose ourselves to the music.