A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  His tongue darts out, and he groans as he licks. His moans and murmurs are already the sexiest sounds I have ever heard, and they send my pulse roaring.

  With one hand braced against the wall behind him, I give small little thrusts, letting him lick and suck the head. That lasts a minute, maybe more, as I burn with desire.

  Then he growls, a frustrated sound. His hands snake around my legs, big palms clasping my ass, gripping me. He opens his mouth wider, tugs me in a little deeper, his lips wrapping around the crown of my cock. I swear, it’s a miracle I don’t come right then. “Your lips are fucking fantastic,” I rasp out.

  He grins against my dick, pulling back. “But I’ve barely got you in my mouth, Fitz.”

  “So what? They’re still sexy as hell. Look at you. Jesus. Just look at how sexy you are with my cock in your gorgeous fucking mouth.”

  And it’s like those words do something to him. They affect him in a way I haven’t seen, didn’t expect. His eyes darken, etched with a brand-new intensity. He licks the tip, his eyes never straying from mine, and I don’t look away either.

  My God, how can I?

  “Then don’t hold back,” Dean commands. “Give it all to me. If I can handle your enormous ego, I can handle your enormous cock.”

  I let go of my dick, grazing my hand over his face, and speak from the heart of my insatiable desire for him. Because I’m serious—no joking here. “No. It’s me. I don’t know if I can handle how hot this is.”

  His lips twitch. “Bet you can, Fitz. I absolutely bet you can handle it all. I bet you’re dying to come in my throat.”

  I groan as lust tears through me. This man. His words.

  He grips my ass hard, pulling me into his warm mouth. Letting me know he’s got this, he can take it, he can take all of me. His lips wrap around my shaft, and I’m right where I want to be.

  And holy fuck.

  Sparks sizzle across my entire body.

  I swear, my skin is on fire. Pleasure floods me, touching everywhere as I slide to the back of his throat, watching as he takes me in. As he lavishes delicious attention on my dick.

  I find a rhythm, set a pace, pumping into his mouth. “You’re killing me, babe. Fucking killing me with that mouth. That tongue.”

  His eyes sparkle with desire, with satisfaction, saying that he’s going to give me the best blow of my life. And no doubt he will, because he is.

  Because I fucking love what he’s doing to me.

  Love his hands on my ass. Love his face. Love his sinful mouth that works me over, and most of all, I love that he wants it like this, that he wants me like this, fucking his sexy mouth.

  I thrust a little harder, pump a little deeper, and he answers my every move with his fingers digging into my flesh.

  And on an upstroke, my whole body lights up like a pinball machine, hitting a new high score as pleasure pounds through me, curling in my veins. I grunt, “Gonna come. Gonna come now.”

  I shudder as my eyes squeeze shut and my orgasm rips through me. Dean drinks down every last drop.

  And as I’m coming down from the high, I pull out, slide down his body, and taste his lips with a hungry, possessive kiss. He tastes like us, and it drives me a little bit crazier.

  But then, around him? Crazy seems to be my new state of mind.

  14

  Dean

  The clock is ticking as I zip up my trousers. I take a look in the mirror, checking out my reflection. “Well, looks like I’m going to have to confess to Maeve,” I say, buttoning my shirt.

  “Is that how your bet usually works? You go into the booth and serve it all up like she’s your priest?”

  I toss a glance at Fitz striding across the room in his briefs, but still shirtless. “I don’t know how it usually works, since this is the first time I’ve broken the rule.”

  His grin is the size of the river, huge and filled with pride. He walks up behind me, sets his hands on my arms, and brushes a possessive kiss on my neck. “Good. I like knowing that. I like that a whole lot.”

  I do up the buttons, trying valiantly not to be affected by what he’s doing to my neck. “But if you must know, she pretty much broke me down last night and forced me to admit it. And she told me that she’d set me up.”

  “I should send her a lifetime supply of top-shelf booze for that.” Another kiss on my neck. Another wave of lust through my body.

  I stare at our reflection, at the way he’s touching me even when he needs to get out of here. “Don’t you need to get dressed and meet your sister?”

  “Mmm. I do, but you taste so good.” Fitz slides his lips farther down my neck. “I also happen to have a fantastic sense of timing. I know exactly how long it takes to get down the ice. By my count, I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty seconds to leave you wanting more of me before I have to go.”

  Groaning, I lean into my American lover, taking his kisses, savoring his attention. At this rate, though, I’m never going to leave his room. Straightening my spine, I slide another button through the corresponding hole. “I suspect this time, however, that Maeve will read it on my face straightaway. She’s smart like that.”

  He laughs as he draws his lips along my skin, rubbing his scruff against me. “Or are you that transparent, Dean?”

  I arch a brow in the mirror as I finish the last button. “What do you think?”

  Fitz raises his eyes, giving me a thorough appraisal. “I’d say that’s the face of someone who’s given it good and gotten it good.”

  “Great. Fucking great,” I mutter, but I’m not annoyed in the least. Annoyance is impossible in moments like this.

  He slides his hand to my ass, squeezing it hard. “I call it like I see it. And, Dean, you look like you’ve been sucked hard and well by a man who wants you.”

  His comment shouldn’t do anything more than ignite another bout of lust. But the intensity of his desire is a life force. It’s a light that draws me, and I want more of it.

  “Hence my plan for preemptive confession,” I say, and I can feel a smile tugging at my lips, the admission that I don’t mind cleaning the floors or painting the walls or hauling rubbish or chopping wood or anything if it means another round with him.

  It’s not just his tongue or his mouth, though, or his fantastic cock. It’s the other things he does with his mouth—it’s the things he says and the way we are with each other.

  He’s the best time I’ve ever had.

  I turn around so he can’t distract me anymore with those kisses on my neck. “Listen, I have to go to the bar. Take care of some business.” I look at my watch. “I’ll be done before seven. Meet me at Sticks and Stones at eight thirty. It’s nearby, and open Sunday nights, unlike The Magpie. I’ll text you the address. Since I believe you had a study to show me, from the society of Why the Hell Won’t You Have Dinner with Me. Tonight you should show me that, and then show me all the other things you want to do to me.”

  He grabs my face, drags me in close, and kisses me like he owns my lips. And if I stay any longer, he’ll miss his appointment.

  So I break the kiss, step to the door, and reach for the handle. I’m about to take off, when I stop, turn around, and close the distance between us again.

  There are moments for games, and then there are moments for truth.

  I’m not going to see him again after Thursday. He’ll be out of my life for good. So, if I’m giving in now, I want to experience all of the pleasure, all of the chase.

  And I want him to have a taste of the addiction he’s giving me, to feel its power, to know its pull. I drag my hand up his chest, spreading my palm over his pecs, so firm under my touch. “I do want more of you, Fitz. I want all of you. I have since the night I met you.”

  His eyes are glossy with both lust and gratitude. “I’m so fucking glad you said yes to me.”

  “Ditto.” I tip my forehead to the door. “And now I do have to go.”

  I leave, counting down the seconds till I see him again.

  That�
��s a good thing, this impatience, this intensity, but I have a feeling it could also become a bad thing.

  A very bad thing indeed.

  15

  Dean

  After I do some work and go for a run, I head home, shower, and change for tonight. Jeans and a polo. Phone and wallet. That’s all I need.

  I catch the Tube, and when it lets me out near Sticks and Stones, I text my dad, checking in to see what he’s up to. He replies immediately.

  Dad: Poker. I plan to clean up with my mates from the old office. They’re rubbish at cards.

  Dean: And you’re not.

  Dad: I can bluff like nobody’s business, and I can always tell who’s trying to bluff me. What are you up to tonight?

  Dean: Just heading out to see a friend. I’ll see you Tuesday for dinner, right?

  Dad: Friend??? It’s hilarious that you think I don’t know what that means. Have fun with that Yankee.

  I crack up as I walk the short distance to Sam’s pub, pinging Dad as I go.

  Dean: How did you know?

  Dad: Friend. You called him a friend. Not a mate. Good luck on your date.

  Dean: It’s official. I’m disowning you.

  Dad: Too late. You’re stuck with me.

  Dean: See if I make it to dinner this week, old man.

  Dad: You’ll show, I have no doubt. You always do.

  I look up from the phone to see the man of the hour walking toward me. He’s freshly showered by the look of it, the ends of his brown hair a little wet. He wears jeans and a T-shirt that’s just a notch above casual, revealing the tribal bands that wrap around his biceps and slide into sunbursts on his shoulders.

  “Hey, you. Something funny?” Fitz nods at the phone.

  “My dad. We were just texting.”

  “Ahh,” Fitz says. “I nearly forgot to do this.” He clasps my cheeks and kisses me. It lasts all of two seconds, but it goes to my head.

  When he breaks the kiss, he gestures toward my phone. “How’s your dad?”

  “He’s good,” I say, smiling, tucking my mobile away in my pocket. “He was just giving me a hard time about tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the world’s most sarcastic person.”

  Fitz’s eyes sparkle. “This explains so much about you.”

  “Why, yes, I do get my good looks from him,” I say, deadpan.

  He cracks up. “Exactly. So why was he giving you a hard time about tonight? Is he not supportive?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “He’s giving me a hard time because he called it a date before I did.”

  Fitz grins, then sets a hand on my back. “I like your dad. Also, yes, this is a date. I’m calling it that too. And your dad is a smart man.”

  “He’s brilliant,” I say, trying to rein in the grin that might reveal how much I want to be exactly where I am right now with the ice defender, the cocky athlete, the guy who walked into my bar.

  He nods to the door. “Want some grub?”

  “Since I suspect we’ll be working up an appetite, the answer is yes.”

  We head into Sticks and Stones, a place I’ve been to a ton of times with Maeve, or with Naveen and Anya, my mates from cooking class who own an Indian restaurant over in Notting Hill. Or even with Taron, who runs one of the old furniture shops I haunt. They’re my people—the ones I meet for a drink or a laugh at the end of the day.

  Sam’s behind the bar on the phone, and he gestures that he’ll find me soon.

  As luck would have it, Naveen and his wife are here, and they wave their hellos from the bar. I give Fitz the quick download on the couple. “Those are some of my good mates. He was born in Mumbai; she grew up in Auckland. They met several years ago at a café in Covent Garden when the staff mixed up their orders.”

  “That’s quite a meet-cute,” Fitz remarks.

  “Just imagine if the server had given her the portobello mushroom sandwich and him the lentil soup like he was supposed to.”

  “I guess you’ve heard the lentil-portobello story from them before.”

  I give him a small grin. “Just a few times. But it’s sweet. Come on over and say hi.”

  “Would love to.”

  I head over, kissing Anya’s cheek and giving Naveen a clap on the back.

  “Haven’t seen you in ages,” Naveen says.

  “Yes, don’t be such a stranger,” Anya says with a flip of her blonde hair.

  “I saw you just a week ago. But I get it— it feels like ages when you must miss me terribly.” I park a hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “This is Fitz. He’s in town from New York for a few days. He’s quite funny, he plays hockey, and if you see Taron around, you better tell him not to give Fitz so much as a second glance because he’s already spoken for during his stay.”

  Naveen laughs. “I’ll pass on the word that you got your claws into the American first.” Then he extends a hand to my . . . date. Fitz shakes.

  “Nice to meet you, Fitz,” Naveen says. “Don’t know how you put up with this cheeky fucker.”

  “I’m guessing a few days is about all you can take of Dean anyway,” Anya weighs in.

  “I can handle him for the short-term.” Fitz smiles then kisses her cheek, European-style. “Good to meet you.”

  “Lovely to meet you too,” Anya says. “And how are you liking London?”

  Fitz glances my way, a hungry look in his blue eyes. “So far, I’m enjoying the sights quite a bit.”

  That sends Naveen and Anya into peals of laughter, and I roll my eyes as I move him along, heading down the bar to grab a couple of stools.

  “I guess you come here a lot,” Fitz remarks.

  “I do. Since so many of my mates are here.”

  “And this Taron guy? Is he an ex?” There’s a flare of jealousy in his voice, and it’s endearing.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “No. Not at all. One, he’s not my type. Two, he’s actually pretty serious about someone, so I was just taking the piss out of him, and he’s not even around to defend himself. Poor fella.”

  “Why is he not your type? What’s your type?”

  I rake my eyes over Fitz. “Well, I happen to prefer a little rugged charm.” I take a beat. “Or a lot, for that matter.”

  “Perfect answer.” He grabs the menu, and as he looks at it, something occurs to me. Fitz is the first guy I’ve brought to this place where my friends congregate.

  The whole time I was with Dylan, I never brought him here.

  Never wanted to.

  I kept him and other hookups separate from the people in my life I see nearly every day. Maybe because this place and these people feel like mine. I’d want to keep these friends in the inevitable breakup, so it was simpler not to let my worlds collide.

  No need to intermingle.

  Though I just did.

  But Fitz and I have a natural split coming our way on Thursday. That must be why I’m comfortable with him being here.

  Since he’s leaving, this place will always be mine.

  Fitz taps the menu. “What do you recommend? I have to admit, I haven’t heard great things about English food. Outside of scones, of course.”

  “Which you missed in your overzealous haste earlier today.”

  “You missed the scones too,” he points out.

  I arch a brow, taking my time. “No, Fitz. I didn’t miss the scones one bit.”

  “You have such a dirty mind, and I love it,” Fitz says, dragging a hand over his scruff. I can still remember how it felt against my thighs.

  Something I don’t need to think about right now.

  And yet . . .

  “And when you do that,” I say, gesturing to his jaw, “you cause the filthy thoughts to multiply.”

  His eyes seem to spark with dirty delight, and he lets out a low hum of appreciation. “You like my beard.”

  “You know I do,” I say, then manage to veer the conversation back to the original topic. “And to answer your question—Sam doesn’t offer typical E
nglish bar food. He was a chef before he broke into the bar business. He’s a Yankee, like you.”

  “Ha! I knew it. So English food is terrible.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

  Fitz wags his finger. “Then why did it take an American to fix it?”

  He’s deliberately trying to get under my skin, and I love it. All I can do is laugh.

  “So, you admit the food here sucks?” he presses.

  “Hello? Who is disparaging my fine cuisine?” The interruption comes from Sam, who’s off the phone and has joined us at our end of the bar.

  I hold up my hands in surrender, then gesture to my date. “Sorry, mate. We’ll have to bar him for casting aspersions.”

  Sam hooks his thumb in the direction of the door. “Time to go.”

  Fitz clasps my shoulder. “His fault, man. He didn’t defend you.”

  “Yes, I did,” I say.

  “No, you didn’t. You only said he was a chef. You didn’t say his food was great.”

  “His food is great.” I practically shout it.

  “Maybe I need to kick out Dean,” Sam suggests.

  “You would never.”

  “Seems like he might,” Fitz says.

  Sam grins, tipping his head toward the man next to me. “You from California?”

  Fitz grins. “San Diego. Born and raised.”

  He and Sam exchange a thoroughly American fist-bump thing. “I grew up in New York but lived in LA for ten years. What brings you here?”

  Fitz explains about Emma and her art program, and the two of them chat about tacos and burritos, beaches and surfing, hitting it off instantly.

  Resting an elbow on the bar, I watch their volley, listening to their laid-back way of speaking, all those dudes and mans and bros.