Page 113 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“Why not? I’m irresistible. You said it yourself.”
I set a hand on his back. “I’ve seen the way you stare at me. I’d never need to bid on you. You’d have jumped off the stage and into the audience just to ask me out on a date.”
Fitz pretends to consider this. “You are so cocky, but also so right.”
We swing past Teagan and Ransom, and Fitz mouths to him, Go for it.
Ransom points to his ear, mouthing back, I can’t hear you, then smiles at Teagan once again, looking wrapped up in whatever they’re saying.
“Some guys don’t see what’s in front of them,” Fitz says.
That’s definitely true, not just for guys, but for everyone. I look over at Maeve and Sam, holding tight to each other on the dance floor. I flash back on that moment at the sushi lunch last year, when something seemed to be brewing. That was months ago, but Maeve needed that time, needed those months. Seeing her now, she’s ready for all that love has to offer her.
Perhaps that’s the true key to happiness. Seeing it. Recognizing it. Having the guts to go for it. To know you deserve it. I reach for my husband’s hand, thread my fingers through his, look at our joined hands, then meet his eyes.
“I am not one of those guys. I know exactly what I have in front of me.”
His grin melts me. “Everything.”
And I give him his favorite word from me. “Yes.”
Soon enough, we say goodbye to all our friends and family, and we head to the hotel, making good on all our wedding night promises.
The next morning, we catch a flight to Europe, and we go to Copenhagen, like we talked about doing one morning when we were tangled up in the sheets of a hotel bed in London.
The capital of Denmark is both picturesque and cosmopolitan, with cobbled streets right alongside skyscrapers. We spend our days wandering around the city, taking boat rides and bike rides, and checking out the sights, doing what we’ve always done together.
Talking, laughing, having the best time.
One evening, we stop at a bar and grab beers to drink outside, when I spot a tall, strapping blond Dane walk by.
Fitz scoots closer to me, nodding to the guy. “Told you the men were hot.”
I arch a brow. “Are you honestly going to perv on other men on our fucking honeymoon?”
Licking his lips, he gives me a salacious grin. He laughs, then shakes his head. “No. I can’t even pretend. Not even in a fantasy. But you know what I want?”
“What do you want?”
“I want your fantasies, Dean. Tell me what you’d do to me right now. If we were in our room? Whisper it in my ear.”
I run my hand over the ink on his muscular arm. “Ah, that I can do. I can definitely tell you all the filthy things I want to do with this body. I like that a lot better.” I move in closer, flicking my tongue over his earlobe. “Bite your neck.”
“Do it now.”
“With pleasure,” I say, as I brush my lips downward then nip the flesh of his neck.
He shivers, then closes his eyes. “What you do to me . . .” His voice trails off.
“And what exactly do I do to you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
He groans as I say his name, since he loves whenever I use it. Any and all variations of it. “You turn me on, Dean.”
“Good answer.”
“You’re the only one I want.”
I bend my face to him again, rubbing my day-old stubble against his neck. “Good. Because all my fantasies are about you too.”
“Tell me another one,” he says, adjusting himself in his chair, his eyes still closed, the expression on his face one of clear arousal.
“Some are pretty simple. Right now, I’d take you back to the room. Throw you on the bed. Tease your stomach with little kisses. Nibble on your thighs. Bite your arse. Lick you. Torment you. Not even touch your cock till you were begging.”
He opens his eyes, narrowing them. “You’re so cruel.”
“That may be true, but you’d be rewarded for enduring my cruelty.”
“How so?”
“I’d put you on your hands and knees, get inside you,” I say, as his expression goes slack-jawed. “Cover your body with mine. Take you. Please you. Fuck you. And finish what I’m starting right here.”
Fitz sits up straight, blinking, sex written in his eyes. “Now. Do that to me now.” He reaches into his wallet, fishes around for some kroner, and tosses them on the table. Then he grabs my hand, tugging at me.
I lift my beer. It’s half full. “I’m not done. Don’t you want to enjoy the scenery some more?”
“I want to enjoy your scenery.”
I hold up a finger, making him wait as I take another swallow, even though I want that fantasy as badly as he does. Then I set the glass down, as his eyes sear me, like he’s saying he’s going to punish me for making him wait another damn second to deliver.
