Page 50 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
As I come so damn hard inside him.
As he climaxes all over my hand, groaning my name.
The pleasure just crashes over me in wave after wave of never-ending bliss.
We collapse, a hot sticky mess on the bed, and I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
I slide out, keeping the condom on, but not wanting to let go of him as we pant and breathe and moan.
And I tell myself it’s just the sex I’ll miss.
It’s just the hottest sex of my life that I’ll long for.
And I almost believe it.
Almost.
But not quite.
21
Dean
A little later, I down a glass of scotch, savoring the last satisfying drop. “A shag, a scotch. What could be better?”
Fitz sets down his empty glass, reaches for the remote, and flicks on the TV. “SportsCenter?”
I sink onto the bed, flinging a hand over my eyes. “Dear God. No. Just no.”
Fitz cracks up. “I’m not that much of a dick. I won’t subject you to SportsCenter.” He tosses the remote on the floor. “Do you really hate sports?”
I remove my hand from my eyes. “Sports are great. I just don’t want to watch sports news in bed with you.”
He wiggles a brow. “I get it. There are better things to do.”
“Yes, that. And I’m sure we’ll be recharged shortly.”
“So, what do you want to do in bed with me, then?”
I glance at the tumbler. “Drinking scotch is fun. But if you really want to watch television, I’d rather watch a comedy on Netflix or something.”
His blue eyes twinkle. “Dark comedy?”
“Love it.”
“British comedy?”
“Of course.”
“Sitcoms?”
“With no laugh track.”
Grinning, he offers me a hand to high-five, and I smack it back. “Laugh tracks suck,” he says. Stretching across me, Fitz reaches for his phone, clicks on Netflix, and scrolls through the newest comedies. We find one that interests us both, a show about a group of friends too tangled up in each other’s lives.
Fitz clicks play and then settles in next to me, his head on the pillow beside mine. His body fits snugly against me, his arm draped across my shoulders.
Everything about this moment screams opposite of hookup, yet that calendar mercilessly flipping forward reminds me that it’s safe to enjoy this moment, since it’ll end soon.
Still, I can’t resist teasing him.
“You realize we’re both over six feet, and we’re in this little sliver of the bed,” I point out, staring at the other unused side of the king-size bed.
He grins, inching closer to me. “Are you saying you don’t want to snuggle with me after I fucked your brains out? Or are you trying to tell me diplomatically that I suck at snuggling?”
I crack up. “Because that would be an insult to you? Being rubbish at snuggling?”
“I am not rubbish at snuggling, and you know it. I am an awesome snuggler,” he says, squeezing me harder.
“You’re not too bad.”
“You hate snuggling. Admit it,” he says, dipping his head into the crook of my neck and planting a loud, over-the-top kiss there as a soft thunk registers in my mind.
“Yes, I despise it. Please stop,” I say as I do the opposite, somehow scooting closer to him.
“I can’t stop. I can’t help myself,” Fitz teases, then grabs me hard, yanking me into his arms.
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing, even as I gently push him away, the sound of the show playing in the background a little more distant now.
He raises his head, furrowing his brow. “What happened to my phone?”
“I think it fell on the floor.” I peer over the side of the bed and reach down to grab the phone from the carpet. I hand it to him, the show still playing.
“So, good show, huh?” he asks dryly.
“It’s fantastic. I could write an essay on it.”
“We could do a trivia night about the show.”
“Yes, I know so much about it. Let’s find a pub and do a quiz, and we’ll ace it.”
Fitz laughs, clicking the end button on the show. A notification pops up on his phone—a new text message.
I look away, not wanting to pry.
“You can answer your messages. It doesn’t bother me.”
“It’s from Logan. He thanked me for the pic,” he says, then shows me the text.
Logan: Amelia loved the pic. Thanks, man. Anyone who makes my kid that happy is good in my book.
Fitz smiles, then scrolls to the next message. “And this is from his sister, Summer. She’s also one of my friends in New York.”
“They’re the ones with the cousin I’d surely be mates with because of our furniture hobby?”
“Yes, that’s them,” he says with a laugh, then clicks on Summer’s message.
I don’t look at his phone, but I can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up, how a smile seems to tug at the corner of his lips as he reads her note.
But I say nothing. It’s not my place, even though I’m curious about what makes him look like that, what a friend says to him that puts that happiness on his face. Of course, it doesn’t seem hard to make Fitz happy. He’s wired for it, like a golden retriever. Happiness seems to be the natural state he gravitates to, yet another thing to like about him.
