Page 40 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“And then this last one?”
My fingers travel to his chest, where his skin bears an inscription under the left pec. It’s small and simple, just two words—No Regrets.
“That’s how I try to live. It’s a good mantra,” he says.
“I can’t disagree with you on that. I like it. I like them all. I like the way they look on you. So much that I don’t mind mopping the floors or scrubbing the toilets.”
Fitz snakes a hand around my body, squeezing my ass. “You’re going to have to do so many chores after the things I plan on doing to you.”
“At this rate, I think I might be building a new bar from scratch.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I should feel guilty, but I don’t.” He pauses for a beat. “Do you want me to help you though?”
I scoff. “You’re not going to pitch in and clean the floors. I make my own choices.”
“I’d do it for you. If you wanted me to.” The earnestness of his offer is almost too much. It tugs on my heart, the sweetness in his voice. I believe he’d really grab a paintbrush or a hammer and happily work off my debt with me.
“I’m sure you’d look fantastic with a tool belt, but let’s focus on these tools instead,” I say, sliding a hand under the covers and squeezing his cock.
“You can use that for anything you want.”
“And I plan to. Since evidently you need to get all these horny penguins out of your system before you go whack some moles or whatever it is you do on the ice.”
He cracks up as I let go of him. “I will get you to like hockey, I swear.”
“If it’s the last thing you do,” I tease, shaking a fist.
“I’m going to make sure you love it. Mark my words, Dean.”
“And I suppose I’d better make sure you like London. So, on that note, I should shower and change.” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “I’ll meet you at Tower Bridge at twelve thirty.”
“That’s two hours away. How will I make it until then? I’m like a penguin, and in penguin time, that’s years.”
Laughing, I toss the covers aside. “So rub one out in the shower. That’ll tide you over for a couple of hours.”
He pouts, grabbing my thigh. “You rub one out with me right now,” he says, grabbing my hand and wrapping it around his cock.
Which is ready to go.
And feels amazing.
That’s the problem. He feels too good, turns me on too much. I’m getting hooked on the drug that is Fitz.
Even though I know better. Addictive feelings lead to choices that have far-reaching consequences, like leaving your family, leaving your world.
Things I would never do.
But I won’t be tempted.
Because that’s not what flings offer you.
They don’t dangle before you the chance to skip out of town.
They don’t encourage you to say see you later to all that matters.
Flings have a beginning, a middle, and, most importantly, an end. You can enjoy the hell out of them because of that immutable fail-safe known as an expiration date.
A fling is a perfect container for these unruly feelings Fitz evokes. Flings are supposed to be wildly intoxicating. They’re meant to consume you for a few days, like a star that burns twice as bright, but half as long. You can bathe in the intensity for a few days, drape it over you, roll around in it.
You can drink it up and swallow it down, savoring every drop, knowing it’ll be gone soon enough.
Fitz is dessert, all the decadent chocolate cakes in the city, and I will devour him for days.
Then, I’ll return to my normal diet.
No more cake, no more him.
So I should eat my cake while I can.
I get back in bed, grab some lube to make this easier, and slide my palm along his erection, loving the hot, hard feel of him, the velvet-smooth skin, the steel length, and, most of all, the sounds he makes.
Yes.
Fucking yes.
Love it like that.
Love it hard and tight, and yes . . . Just. Like. That.
I dip my other hand lower, cupping his balls, playing with them, then I bring my mouth to his and suck on his bottom lip, drawing it in, knowing that kissing will send him over the edge.
And it works.
He’s coming in my hand, rocking and thrusting and moaning my name.
After I wash my hands, I get dressed, say goodbye, and tell him I’ll see him soon.
As I leave the hotel and hit the streets of my hometown, I vow to use these hours away from him to remind myself how much I like being away from him.
Since that’s where I’ll be in three more days.
I can’t get accustomed to having him around.
No matter how much I like it.
Or him, for that matter.
There’s only one thing to do—forget about him for the next two hours.
