Page 81 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
His pulsing shaft is hot and hard, pre-come slicking between us. The feel of him like this, near the edge, sends bolts of lust down my spine.
Fitz slows the kissing for a second, murmuring against my lips, “I love kissing you so much. Gonna miss it so much, babe.”
“Me too,” I whisper, feeling too much, wanting too much.
I’m on the edge of the world right now. My body is nothing but pleasure, nothing but bliss.
My mind enters a wonderful, ecstatic haze as I move in him, rock my hips, stroke deeper.
“I love fucking you,” Fitz says with another hard kiss. “But I love this too. You fucking me. Want it again and again.” His hands grab me harder, while his legs grip me so damn tight. “Just love it all,” he whispers between bites and deep, hard kisses.
He’s not saying certain words exactly.
But it hardly matters. I feel them deep in my chest. And I know in my heart, I absolutely know what’s happening. I hate it, and I love it too. I love it so much.
This connection.
This incredible, intense intimacy that’s physical and so much more—more than two bodies smashing into each other. It skates far past chemistry and molecules and organs.
We are in this.
And I don’t know how we turn back.
His face shifts with pleasure, like he’s breaking.
“Babe,” he grunts. “I need to come.”
He drops his hand from my head, grabbing his cock. The moment shifts back to the physical plane as I swat his hand away.
“I’ll get you there,” I say, feeling possessive, needing to take him over the edge. Wanting to be the only one to ever do this to him, for him, with him.
And I do. I stroke him as agony twists his features—mine too, while I try to stave off my release. But it’s pointless because he’s growling and grunting, and his sounds unleash my own pleasure.
“Yes. Coming,” he says, and I watch as he explodes with desire, come spurting in jets over his stomach, up his chest. The sight of it pushes me over the edge. My own pleasure detonates, searing my blood, torching my veins, and taking over my whole being.
I groan, as my climax blinds me in an electric neon haze until both of us are gasping for air.
I sink onto him as he kisses me.
“I love kissing you,” he whispers again and again, like he can’t not say it, like he can’t stop doing it. “Love it so much.”
It’s all he’s saying, but I know what he’s not saying. I know what he’s feeling because I’m feeling it too.
“I love it so much too,” I tell him, and he loops his arms around my back.
And we know.
We both know what happened in such a short time in London after the night he walked into my bar.
Trouble is, I have no clue what happens tomorrow when he gets on that plane.
But I have to figure it out.
In the middle of the night, while Fitz is sound asleep and I’m unable even to nod off, I look up flights. I look up details. I run through scenarios.
I chase every possible permutation, and I make a list in my head of pros and cons.
I feel both hopeful and ridiculously foolish.
And then hopeful again as I look at Fitz, his chest rising and falling, his breath coming in that steady, peaceful rhythm.
Softly, without waking him, I run a hand over his hair, flashing back on the last few days, remembering Sunday at Fortnum & Mason when we laid down the law.
This is just a fling. Nothing more, I’d told him.
I’d believed it fervently that afternoon. It had felt like a fact, like nothing would change it.
We could police our emotions.
We could make the rules and never break them.
I shake my head, silently laughing at the two of us. How little it took for us to bend.
I set my phone down, trying once more to sleep.
But then I remember what he said that day. It slams back into me with the force of a hurricane.
My job is everything to me because it means I can take care of my family. Make my mom’s life easy. Give her all the things she never had when we were growing up.
That’s the heart of the problem. I care about him too much to get in the way of his everything.
THURSDAY
Also known as the day we say goodbye.
36
Fitz
Dean keeps his word.
He makes breakfast the next morning—a mushroom omelet with fresh-cut strawberries on the side—and my stomach is in heaven.
“I will never mock you for cooking club again,” I say as I sit, setting down my coffee.
Then I wince.
Dean arches a brow above his cup of tea. “A little sore?”
I laugh lightly. “Yeah. Someone I know is kind of well-endowed.”
He sits across from me, smirking. “Sorry. Not sorry.”
I tap my left pec. “No regrets, babe. No regrets. It’s a good sore.”
