A Guy Walks Into My Bar Read online

  Dean cracks up, a deep, hearty laugh that I dig. “Yes, that’s just what I aspire to do. I’ll just drop everything and focus on this instead.”

  “Everything?” I quirk a brow. “What exactly is everything?”

  “Things that involve clothes.” Dean shakes his head. “Things I do. The bar. Cooking classes with my mates. Furniture restoration with my dad.”

  I snap my fingers, his last comment triggering a memory. “That’s an unusual hobby. My friends Summer and Logan have a cousin in New York who’s into that. Guy named Leo.”

  “Yes. I know him. We’re all mates, all of us who restore furniture around the globe. Maybe you have some friends there who like to cook too?”

  “I believe I do. And we all agree softball is better than cooking club,” I say.

  He laughs indignantly. “It’s not a fucking cooking club. They’re classes. I go with some friends who own an Indian restaurant. We learn different cuisines, new dishes. Don’t you like food, Fitz?”

  “Love it. And I love podcasts about unsolved mysteries, and I like hitting up the local indie and rock shows when I’m not on the ice. I also play paintball with my buddies back in New York. I bet you hate paintball.”

  “This may shock you, but I don’t play paintball. And this may shock you too, since you seem to think I have no athletic prowess, but I could kick your ass at pool.”

  “Ohhhh,” I say, dragging it out, loving the direction of this conversation. “I’d like to take you up on that.”

  “I bet you would.”

  My eyes drift back to his arms. Then down his chest, where I can tell, just tell, from the fit of his shirt that he’s rocking a six-pack. “You look like you play sports. And that’s a compliment.”

  He takes a beat, going quiet for a moment like he’s weighing his thoughts. Maybe his wants. “You absolutely look like you do, and that is a compliment too,” he says, his eyes drifting back to my ink, his voice hitting that low register it seems to linger in when he looks at me, and both the compliment and the eye-fucking do not go unnoticed. “In any case,” he adds, “I’m a runner. I play rugby occasionally. Football, if I can.”

  “And by ‘football,’ you actually mean soccer.”

  “I mean the sport played entirely with one’s feet. Meaning, football.”

  I see my opening and take it.

  “Fine. I won’t even try to convince you about football versus football or football versus rugby. But what I will convince you of right now is that softball is a hell of a fun way to blow off steam.”

  Dean laughs. “Sure it is.”

  “Wanna bet? I bet that right now, it would be the perfect way to take your stress away.”

  “How do you know I’m stressed?” he asks, and he’s still laughing, and I love it. I can get this guy to laugh, and the sound lights me up, makes me want to keep going because, in his laughter, I can feel him bending. I can tell he likes talking to me as much as I like talking to him.

  Do I want to get him under me? Abso-fucking-lutely. But do I also dig this? The talking? Hell yes. And it’s one of the reasons I know it’s going to be electric when I have my way with him.

  Because we already have a rhythm. It’s like being on the ice, in a way. He lines up the shot, and I shoot it right into the net.

  I dig out my wallet and find a few bills. “How about this? Ten pounds says you love it. And if you don’t, I’ll throw in some drinks too.”

  “You do realize I own a bar, right? Drinks are literally on me every single night.”

  I run a hand over my beard. “Fair. How about dinner, then? That study said it was a good idea.”

  “I’m still waiting for you to show me that study.”

  “Oh, I’d like to show you a lot of things.”

  He tosses his head back, cracking up. “Fitz, do you ever take no for an answer?”

  “You haven’t said no. And if you do, I will walk away in a second, and you will never hear from me again. I respect boundaries. I respect the hell out of no. If you want to say no, say it.” I wait. Arms crossed. Patient.

  He looks at me, pinning me with an intense stare, one that has so much going on behind it.

  If I only knew what.

  He takes a small step closer, getting near me, and hell, I love being this close. This isn’t the accidental brushing from earlier. He knows precisely what he’s doing. Because even though he hasn’t touched me, I can tell by the way he swallows, by the hitch of his breath, that he’s affected by me being near him.

  Good.

  Same goes for me.

  Dean takes a moment, like he’s collecting himself before he answers.

  When he speaks, his voice is low, just for me. “You might have noticed I’m not saying no to you. That, in fact, I’m having an incredibly hard time turning you down, Fitz.”

  I nearly groan at the way he says my name. Like he wants more of it, more of me.

  “Good. I don’t want your no. I want your yes. But right now, I would settle for showing you how awesome softball is.” I take a beat. “Ball’s in your court, sexy bartender.”

  He picks up the volley and serves it in my direction. “Yes, cocky athlete,” he says. “Show me why you like softball.”

  “With pleasure.”

  And I’m patting myself on the back for having the self-restraint not to pump a fist.

  But that’s how I feel right now.

  Like I just set up a beautiful play.

  7

  Dean

  They’re going to take away my award.

  All that resisting, all that attitude with Maeve, and what am I doing now?

  Following this outgoing, determined, sexy-as-sin, and fit-as-fuck American to some cheesy, gimmicky bar.

  I detest gimmicky bars as much as I loathe piña coladas. This kind of theme bar is an affront to everything I want for The Magpie.

  Posters of ballplayers line the walls, all of them pitching or crouching behind a plate or running. Lots of thick mustaches. Loads of pinstripes.

  Perhaps that’ll kill the buzz I seem to have from Fitz. The intoxicating effect he has on me.

  Maybe I should just home in on this bar’s atmosphere, which should shore up my resistance—like the neon everywhere, and so much awful beer, endless taps of Bud and Corona. If anyone saw me here, I’d have to hang my head in shame. Lucky for me—or unlucky, considering I have a bet I’ve got to somehow hold on to—Fitz shows no interest in lingering at the bar.

  We pay the attendant at the bottom of the stairs, then Fitz leads us right up them, following the signs for “Rooftop Batting Cages.”

  As he goes, he keeps looking back, watching me with those blue eyes that seem to get heavier with want with every step.

  “Like the view?”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Right back atcha.”

  I laugh at his way of speaking, his Americanisms that are kind of endearing.

  All I’m doing is blowing off steam. Letting him teach me a little softball. That doesn’t mean anything more will come of it.

  He’s just a man.

  An insanely smooth-talking man with a fantastic laugh and a tempting beard.

  A man that, unless I want to spend the weekend scrubbing walls, I have to resist.

  On the roof, we grab the bat and balls ourselves, since this is a do-it-yourself setup, then head to the makeshift lane and its home plate. Maybe thirty or forty feet away, there are nets to catch the balls, so they don’t pelt the Londoners on the street. Very considerate.

  It’s quiet up here, except for the whir of the bar down below.

  I pick up the bat and swing it once for practice. “Easy.”

  “Easy and fun, right?”

  “Sure. It’s easy and fun,” I repeat, and the weight of my words fully registers.

  Something about being with Fitz is easy. Everything about being with Fitz is fun.

  I bet getting him naked would be easy and fun too.

  And in a filthy heartbeat,
my threadbare resistance starts to unravel.

  8

  Fitz

  Intense concentration etches on his brow. Dean swings the bat again with the same grace and power he used when he was mixing drinks.

  Except…

  “Your grip’s all wrong,” I say and because sports are second nature to me, I move in behind him, my arms over his, adjusting. Damn, he smells good. Like soap and pine and the man I want my hands on, my mouth on. The man I want to have my way with.

  I take a breath. I have to make this count.

  Something tells me it’s now or never if I’m going to win Dean over.

  And this is a match I don’t intend to lose.

  “There,” I say, shifting his right hand one more inch. “You want to put your hands like that. Hold on to it. The power comes from the stance.”

  Dean doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him breathing hard against me. I slide my hands along his arms, moving his hands slightly. Tightening his grip on the bat.

  “From there, you just have to hit as hard as you can,” I say, and I’m hardly thinking about softball right now. I’m hardly thinking about what I’m saying. I’m just feeling—feeling the inescapable pull of contact. “That’s it.”

  “That seems simple enough,” he says, distracted, and clearly as uninterested in softball right now as I am.

  And I know that I’m getting to him—little by little.

  I can be very convincing.

  “It’s so simple,” I say, then I run my nose along the back of his neck.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not part of the game,” Dean says in that tone that gives away his desire. A tone that says he wants more.

  “No, it’s not. But maybe it should be. Especially when the players feel like this.”

  I let my hands glide down from the bat, daring to graze his forearms.

  “Ah, yes,” Dean says, like he’s trying for a laugh. “All ballplayers should have burly, pushy American men standing behind—”

  His words are laid to waste the second I bring my lips to the side of his neck.

  It starts as a soft kiss maybe.

  For a second.

  But then I bite him because he tastes so fucking good. I bring my teeth down and nip. His scent goes to my head, makes me lose my mind.

  I crowd him with my body, my crotch against his ass, my arms around him, kissing and biting and sucking his neck, and the whole time he’s tense in my arms.

  But not quite.

  Not quite at all.

  He’s slowly but deliberately giving in, his body veering the slightest bit closer. He pushes against me, and the sensation nearly drives me over the edge.

  Then a loud clang of metal hits my ears. He drops the bat—or maybe I push it out of his hands—sending it clattering to the ground.

  Dean spins around, and in a flash of a second, his hands are on my chest, and he backs me to the cage wall.

  Oh yes, I like commanding Dean. I like commanding Dean very much.

  “Has anyone told you that you had better finish what you start?” His lips are a straight line, his jaw set hard and his eyes fiery.

  “That’s what I want with you. Don’t you know?”

  “I mean, don’t be a fucking tease with your kisses, Fitz.” Dean levels me with a stare. “Mean them. Finish them. Kiss me all the fucking way, like I’m going to kiss you.”

  And then he grabs my face and drops his lips to mine and takes me. His lips are devouring, ravenous, and he kisses me like he’s starving for me.

  Sounds about right, since I feel the same damn way for him.

  He grips me hard, kissing me passionately. He’s greedy and pent-up, and I’m the object of all his wild lust. He pours it all into a punishing kiss.

  It’s deep, uninhibited, and so damn hot.

  Normally, I like to lead, but hell, I will follow him anywhere right now. I take and take and take, and he gives it to me, his long, lean frame slamming against me. The outline of his cock, thick and hard and completely tantalizing against my pelvis, rubs against my hard-on, and it feels so incredibly good.

  Like a dirty promise of what’s to come.

  And his lips—my God, his lips.

  I am dead. Just fucking dead.

  From the way he kisses me.

  He fucks my mouth with his tongue, owning my lips, consuming me.

  My hands race around him, grabbing that firm, tight ass, yanking him impossibly closer as he devours my lips . . . and we fit.

  We fit together, and it’s electric.

  And I have no doubt when we finally make it to the bedroom—and we will make it to the bedroom—that it will be the hottest sex of my life.

  Because my head goes hazy and my body heats to supernova levels just from the way he kisses me. From how he grabs my face and yanks me close. From the way he wants to resist me but can’t whatsoever.

  And the moans he makes with every stroke of his wicked tongue.

  His lips are hungry, and his hands are strong, grappling at me the way I like, all rough and demanding. This kiss is frying my circuits, and I want nothing on earth more than to take him back to my hotel and do very bad things to him.

  Seems he wants that too.

  The need to get out of here wars with my need to kiss the breath out of him.

  The door downstairs clangs, followed by voices, then footsteps on the stairs.

  We break apart, panting, wildly aroused.

  I smirk, glance down at my crotch. “Hope that goes down quickly, but that probably won’t happen.”

  Dean laughs, shaking his head. “One of the many hazards of having a dick.”

  There’s that dry sense of humor again. How is it possible to go from wanting to tear his clothes off to relishing his laugh?

  But that seems par for the course around Dean.

  The voices are drunken, unsteady, but working their way up the stairs.

  Stepping away from him, I pick up the fallen bat as a group of twentysomething women bursts onto the scene, chatting with each other. A bartender follows them and glances our way. This wasn’t going to stay private for long anyway.

  “Here you go,” I say, passing off the bat to a blonde.

  She glances at me and blinks. “Hey, aren’t you that guy from . . .”

  She snaps her fingers, trying to place me. “From, ugh . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  She’s American and maybe a hockey fan, but it’s hard to say.

  My preferences are no secret, so I’m not trying to hide. Nor do I think Dean is. But I’d rather not chat with a fan while I’m sporting this kind of wood.

  “Nah. I get that a lot though. Go knock in some homers, ladies.” I wink at them as I head to the stairs, Dean behind me.

  “Does that happen a lot? Being recognized or almost recognized?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes. Not as much as basketball or baseball players though.” I gesture to my face. “Since we wear masks and all.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that aspect of hockey. Masks and all,” Dean says, imitating my voice.

  I shoot him an appreciative grin. “Ooh, aren’t you so very cheeky.”

  “Charming, Fitz. I’m charming. Get it right,” he says, then his tone turns serious, and he tips his forehead to the roof, indicating the girls. “But what I was getting at about being recognized is, did you deny it’s you for a reason? Are you in the closet?”

  I bust out laughing as we bound down the stairs, shaking my head. “Not in the motherfucking least.”

  Dean wipes a hand across his forehead. “Good, because I do not need to deal with that.”

  “Nor do I. Been there, done that, not interested. Closet’s not my thing.”

  “Ditto. For a second, I thought maybe you came to England to avail yourself of opportunities to be . . . out of the spotlight.”

  “It’s not a secret.” I flash a grin. “I’m kind of known for it, as one of a handful of out players in the NHL.”

  “That’s good.”
/>   The smile on his face tells me it’s hella good, and I’m damn glad he’s in the same sitch. But it’s good to make sure. “I assumed you’re out too. But if that makes an ass out of you and me, maybe tell me now.”

  He laughs. “You might be an ass on other counts, but not on that one. I don’t care if anyone sees me turning you on. As I clearly do.”

  I roll my eyes, stop at the bottom of the stairs, and grab his waist. I wrap a hand around his hip. “You love to give me a hard time.”

  Dean’s gaze drifts down to my jeans and back up. “Seems I’m quite good at it too.”

  “And that’s why I said ‘I get that a lot’ to the blonde. Because I’m still insanely turned on from the way you attacked my face, and I didn’t need anyone else seeing what you did to me.”

  His eyes take a stroll again. “Yes. You seem to be rather affected.”

  “Understatement of the century.” I let go of him and head into the bar, where I gesture to the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’m still not going back to your hotel.”

  “Tease,” I say as we edge our way onto the street.

  “What? Didn’t you like just kissing me, Fitz?” he asks, all mock-coy, since he knows I loved it.

  But I’m a big believer in saying what you mean and meaning what you say. “I loved every single, solitary moment of it,” I tell him, and Dean swallows roughly, then scrubs a hand across the back of his neck like he’s processing that.

  “The feeling is mutual,” he says softly.

  Pride suffuses me. “I’m going to convince you to check out the thread count of my hotel sheets tonight.”

  He laughs, runs his hand over his short hair, then mutters, “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Oh, I have plenty of surprises left for you. And when you come over I’ll show you.”

  We come to a stop on the street.

  Dean chuckles, but when he looks at me again, that damn mask is back. He glances at his watch. “Listen. As much as I would love to accept, I do need to get to work tonight. It’s getting on.”

  I study him and wonder if it’s true or if it’s an out. Wonder if he’s playing hard to get or if he is hard to get.