A Guy Walks Into My Bar Page 16

  A pang twinges in my chest because I want that Morning, sunshine again and again and again.

  “Morning.”

  He reaches for my waist, slinks an arm around me, then murmurs, “Don’t go.”

  “I wasn’t leaving,” I say, laughing. “You always think I’m leaving.”

  “Maybe because I always want you to stay.”

  And that pang becomes an ache.

  But I have a temporary balm.

  “Speaking of not going . . .” I take a deep breath, because this is huge for me. This is not something I ever saw myself doing. This feels like the riskiest step of all, and I don’t want him to slap back like he did yesterday.

  But I understand Fitz more now.

  And today already feels like an entirely new ball game.

  He yawns, then waits for me.

  Nerves crawl up my throat, but this hardly seems like the thing to be nervous over. He wants this. I want this.

  And I’m the one who can make it happen—two full days together.

  “I hope this isn’t presumptuous, but I arranged to take the next two days off.”

  And the smile that takes over his face is the biggest reward ever. “Spend them with me.”

  “Obviously, Fitz.”

  A little later, I step into the shower, turning the tap as hot as it can go.

  I grab a bar of soap and lather it across my chest. Steam fills the space, and I breathe it in.

  Seconds later, the man I want opens the shower door. “Mind if I join you?” Fitz asks.

  “I would mind if you didn’t.”

  He steps in, giving me that incredible view that I’m already addicted to. I do more than admire.

  I touch.

  I rub the soap over him—first his pecs, then those perfect abs. I trace the grooves, my fingers traveling over every hard plane.

  He groans his appreciation, and I move my hands to his broad shoulders, down his firm biceps, then along his roped forearms. I map his body, his muscles, his strength.

  Taking the soap from me, Fitz does the same for me, and I savor the treatment, the attention from his talented hands. He sets down the soap in the soap dish as the steam enrobes us. His hands travel down my chest again, lazily tracing my stomach, and he moves closer, wraps his hand around my length, his fingers curling nice and tight.

  I return the favor and give the man what he wants. Contact. With me. Touch. From me.

  He shivers the second I grip his hard-on, then lets out a long, contented rumble. As the water streams over us, we stay like that for a minute or two, taking our time, playing and stroking. Enjoying each other.

  As I linger in the sensation, my mind wanders ahead to where this might lead. To blow jobs? To sex? To more of whatever this is? Then, I catch sight of something fun out of the corner of my eye.

  On the shower shelf, amid the shampoo and conditioner samples, is another bottle of lube. I tip my head toward the bottle as I slow my pace on his shaft. “You’re always prepared.”

  “I was hoping to get you into the shower at some point. Have my way with you.”

  “Don’t you always?”

  Fitz laughs—a big, rumbly sound. Then he leans in and bites my earlobe. “I do, and I think you like it. Am I right?”

  He pulls back, waiting for a response, an unfamiliar vulnerability flickering across his blue eyes.

  Do I like it when he has his way with me? Is there really any doubt?

  Not about that, but I have a question of my own.

  Something I want to know about him.

  Letting go of his cock, I answer him first. “Yes. I like what you do to me so fucking much. But I think the more important question is this . . .”

  I cover his hand and take it off my dick so I can spin him around. Pushing his back against the tiled wall so he’s facing me, I cage him in as water pounds down on us.

  I grab the lube, pop the cap, and pour some on my finger. “Would you like it if I had my way with you?”

  His blue eyes widen, and desire flashes across them. I turn the tables, wanting to be the one in control, the one pushing. I’m not going to push too far. But there are things I can do to him.

  I whisper in his ear, telling him exactly what they are.

  Hoping to hell that he can handle it. That he’ll let himself take. Because I want to give.

  Fitz shudders all over. “Try me,” he commands.

  Those two words spur me on. My hand slips between his legs, traveling down to his balls, giving them a squeeze first, then to his prostate. My fingers tease, press, massage.

  Instantly, he lets out a strangled moan, adjusting his stance, giving me more access to where I want to be.

  Where he clearly wants me.

  Then, my fingers travel farther, and I push in. A little at first, as he hisses, then farther, deeper, and he unleashes a wild groan.

  “Yes. That. Oh, fuck yes.”

  Pleasure twists inside me from his unfettered reaction. After a few minutes, I add more lube, then another finger, crooking it inside him while rubbing my thumb against him too. Right there. Where it’s magic for a man.

  “Love that,” Fitz groans. “Fucking love it.”

  He rocks against my fingers, and it’s so sexy, so wanton the way he moves, the way he seeks. My whole body hums. It’s utterly crazy, the addictive, heady pleasure I get from him.

  With some one-handed finesse, I pour lube into my free hand, drop the bottle to the tile floor, then wrap that slicked-up hand around his shaft. Tight, rough, just the way he likes it. The way I like touching him too. But then, I like everything with him.

  “So good,” he grunts, moving with me. “So damn good.” He brings his lips to my ear, breathing out hard. “You make me insatiable.”

  “Insatiable seems like your natural state.”

  His eyes drift down between us, and mine do too, admiring the view, the erotic sight of two hard, thick cocks throbbing right next to each other.

  Yes, insatiability rules the day.

  “My natural state is hungry and horny for you. Only you,” he says, and somehow, the fire in me rises another thousand degrees.

  “Finish us off, Fitz,” I tell him hoarsely, as pleasure ricochets through my body.

  “Fuck, yes.” He jerks our cocks together as I fuck him with my fingers. And as he strokes up, harder, tighter, his head falls forward, resting against my shoulder, his words in my ear. “You feel so good. Don’t stop, don’t stop at all.”

  As if I could.

  I can’t stop touching him any more than he can stop talking.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone so expressive, who just lays it all out and so freely voices all his wants and desires. Not only his physical needs, but also his overall craving to see me, to have me, to be with me. It’s so damn intoxicating. More than I ever knew it could be.

  “I won’t stop. I can’t stop,” I say, and I’m talking about this—hands, fingers, fists—but I’m talking, too, about this. Whatever this is between the two of us.

  This temporary fling with my American lover. A fling that is going to consume me. I can sense it building already. I can tell where it’s going and what it’ll do to me.

  My orgasm edges closer, and I’m overwhelmed by desire, by the crush of agonizing bliss as he takes us both to the edge, where we’re moaning and groaning and coming once again.

  Whatever this is—I don’t want it to stop.

  23

  Dean

  Later, at Coffee O’clock, Fitz grins as I list all the chores I’ll have to do for Maeve. She doesn’t need to know the specifics of how I came to owe so many, but Fitz is privy to the X-rated exchange rate of dirty deed to necessary chore.

  And each one is worth it.

  I show him on my phone the jukebox I’m buying for her. “As soon as I slept with you, I owed her that.”

  “Love that jukebox,” he says with a naughty grin.

  As he eats a very late breakfast of yogurt and blueberries, he
points to the task list marching down the paper. “Ooh! I know something else you need on there. Add ‘sanitize the ice bins,’” he says with wicked glee.

  I arch a brow. “And why am I adding that?”

  He leans across the table, his grin all crooked. “That’s so you can pay up for what I’m going to do to you tonight.”

  I roll my eyes, then wiggle my fingers. “Serve it up.”

  “It’s pretty dirty.”

  “You think I can’t handle it?”

  “I don’t know if you want me to say it out loud.”

  “Bet I do. Be a big boy. Just use your words.”

  “You sure?”

  “If you can’t say it, you can’t do it,” I challenge.

  Fitz lets out a faint growl, jerks his chair closer to me, then brings his bearded jaw close to my ear. His whiskers brush my cheek, sending sparks across my skin as he whispers low and smoky words detailing his plans, then flicks his tongue across my earlobe, a promise of how he’ll make good.

  I close my eyes, letting the image flash in my mind before I open them again, a little woozy already. “Why, yes, I think that will be worth sanitizing the ice bins.”

  “I. Can’t. Wait.”

  We leave, saying goodbye to Penny, and head to meet Maeve at her favorite park. She’s lounging on a green bench, wearing a huge pair of sunglasses, a bouncy brunette ponytail, and a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.

  She holds open a paperback, but she’s not reading. She’s gloating as she watches us striding toward her. I decide to let her enjoy her moment. It’s the least I can do for her.

  I take Fitz’s hand and link my fingers through his. He shoots me a surprised but thoroughly delighted look, then squeezes back.

  Maeve’s brown eyes pop, and her smile is worthy of a GIF. Setting down the book, she leaps up from the bench and swings her gaze from Fitz to me to our hands. “I’m just going to say it. Emma and me and the expo—you’re both welcome.”

  Yup. She’s a tabby feasting on canaries today.

  “Anything you need,” Fitz says, “ever. You let me know.” Then he kisses her cheek. “I owe you big-time.”

  She pumps a fist. “Knew it. Called it. Also . . .” She points from Fitz to me and back. “You two are seriously cute.”

  “We’re not cute, but thank you.”

  Fitz stage-whispers, “We’re cute. Just admit it.”

  “Not cute. In any case, Maeve, this is James Fitzgerald. But you can call him Fitz.” I give him a deadpan look. “Or should she call you ‘Yo, Fitzgerald’?”

  “Fitz will do just fine, smart-ass,” he says, grinning.

  Maeve whistles her appreciation. “Oh my God, shut up, you two. Just shut up with your smiling and your flirting.”

  All I can do is laugh. “Thanks again for covering for me.” I drop Fitz’s hand, dip my fingers into my pocket, and give her a piece of paper.

  She arches one brow. “What is this?”

  Fitz claps me on the back, looking too proud for words. “I offered to help with his chores, but he refused.”

  “It’s my to-do list. They’re the chores I’ll owe you.”

  Her eyes twinkle with delight as she unfolds it and reads aloud. “Scrub the bar tops, clean out the glass washing system, sanitize the ice bins, wipe down the bottles in the speed wells, brush on a fresh coat of chalkboard paint for our specials, hang up Maeve’s art that I keep swearing I’ll put up one day, and install the new sound system.” She clutches the paper to her chest and looks up with cartoon-character-size eyes. “The one that’s compatible with a certain jukebox?”

  I wave a hand dismissively. “Yes. At this rate, I’ll owe you ten.”

  Fitz scoffs, muttering under his breath, “More like fifty.”

  Maeve slow-claps. “Well done, gentlemen. Well done. Or should I call you, as the Americans say, horndogs?”

  “Penguins,” Fitz says. “Call us penguins.”

  Maeve arches a questioning brow.

  I shake my head adamantly. “Private joke. Moving on. Want to walk around the park and grill Fitz like I know you’re dying to?”

  “I do,” she says with a smile.

  But she doesn’t interrogate him as we wander past lush green trees and budding orange lilies. She asks him questions about New York, about Soho and the East Village, where he likes to go to see live music. She asks where he lives in the city, and he answers that it’s a spot called Gramercy Park. His favorite things about New York are all of his friends and he tries to see them as much as he can.

  He asks her about me, how long we’ve known each other, and if she can handle my sarcasm.

  “I manage him fairly well,” she replies. “And you?”

  Fitz looks at me and winks. “Yeah, I can handle him too.”

  I roll my eyes, and when Maeve happens to look away, I mouth, Manhandle.

  He replies under his breath, And soon.

  “And when do you leave again?” she asks.

  “Thursday at two,” he says, his voice ten tons heavier than it was three seconds ago.

  Maeve frowns. “That’s soon.”

  Fitz shrugs, unhappily. “Yeah, about forty-eight hours from now.”

  My chest tightens, the reminder making an uncomfortable knot inside me. I don’t want him to go.

  “I wish I could slow down time for you,” she says, a little wistful.

  “Same here,” Fitz adds, then looks my way and slides a hand up my back, rubbing. “Same here,” he repeats, and my heart squeezes with the same wish—the one that won’t come true.

  When we near the edge of the park, Fitz’s phone rings. “It’s my agent. Excuse me for a second.”

  He walks away several feet as he takes the call while Maeve looks at me with what now eyes.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Dean . . .” There’s a note of worry in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She cuts to the chase. “This is more than a fling.”

  I glance over at the man I’m spending the next forty-eight hours with, and the pang returns, stinging a little more this time. “Yeah, it is. Wish I could tell you otherwise. But that’d be a lie.”

  She reaches for my arm, clasping it. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Oh, stop it, woman. I did the crime. I’ll do the time.”

  She shakes her head. “I mean it. I don’t want you to pay up. But what are you going to do when he leaves?”

  I swallow roughly, lifting my chin. “Same thing I always do. Get up, go to work, live my life. I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t have to pretend it’s going to be easy. This is serious. And that’s okay.”

  But it can’t be serious.

  He’s returning to America.

  Yes, it feels like it could be something. But it won’t.

  His life is there. Mine is here. There is no in-between.

  That’s not even on the table.

  I sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw, catching a glimpse of Fitz before I turn my attention back to Maeve. “What can you do? You meet someone. He lives across the ocean. You live here. And nothing will change that.”

  She just smiles softly, knowing I’m right, knowing that this fling will end. “I know,” she whispers, and there’s a hitch in her voice, like she’s already sad for me.

  I’ll have none of that. I reject it by slicing my hand through the air. “Don’t be sad. I’m having the time of my life.”

  She nods, swipes a hand across her cheek, then fixes on a grin.

  Fitz returns, clasping his hands, squaring his shoulders. “My new sponsorship deal is a go. My agent said the company has big plans for when I return.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I say, and as the three of us stroll on through the park, I do my best to savor every second of it.

  24

  Fitz

  Dean and I wait by the river for my sister, the London Eye circling behind us. Emma’s usually early, but it’s almost two, time for the riverboat cruise, and
she’s not here.

  “Where is Emma?” I scan for her blonde head, her blue eyes.

  “Are you sure you want me to go with you?” Dean asks as I survey the crowds again. “If you want it to be just you and Emma, I understand.”

  I whip my gaze to him. “Yes. Just yes. I already bought you a ticket. Don’t ask again.”

  “So sensitive,” he teases.

  I turn to face him. “Don’t you get it, man? I want as much of you as I can have.”

  “I know, but I don’t want to encroach on your time with your family.”

  I grab his cheeks, locking my eyes with his. “Encroach, Dean. Encroach all you want.”

  “That sounds dirty and erudite at the same time.”

  “Hey,” I say, smirking. “That sounds just like a hot guy I know.”

  Dean huffs, but he’s not mad. I let go of his face and spin around right as someone taps on my shoulder.

  It’s Emma. Smiling and a little out of breath.

  “Where were you?” I ask, relieved.

  She points to the ticket counter for the riverboat cruise. “I was just returning my ticket.”

  I blink. “What? I thought you wanted to do this?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I want you two to do this. You don’t need me.”

  “Emma.”

  She looks to Dean then waves. “Hi. Good to see you again.” She points at me. “He likes you a lot.”

  I groan because she is such a devil. “He knows I do.”

  Dean shoots Emma a smile. “Good to see you again too, Emma. And the feeling is quite mutual.”

  Emma squeals, nearly jumping for joy. I want to drop her in a headlock. Instead, I give her a noogie. “You are a troublemaker.”

  “No. I’m a matchmaker, like I’ve been from the start.” She squirms away. “And listen, thanks for inviting me. Thanks for getting me the ticket. Under other circumstances, I’d hang out with you two, but you really should enjoy the day together.”

  I sigh, but I’m not unhappy. I’m incredibly, ridiculously happy. I love my sister, but I’ll see her for the rest of my life. Time with Dean is finite, and once I get on that plane, I won’t see him again.