A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

The second I slide my hand down my length, I shudder.

  I’ve never enjoyed jacking myself off more than right now, never more than when I’m looking at Dean, my hand shuttling at a fevered pace up and down my length.

  His eyes are locked on my dick. He stares as I stroke myself, as pleasure crackles in my veins, as it spreads relentlessly across my whole body.

  “You better come on my chest,” he instructs. “Shoot all over me.”

  “Yes, God yes. I want my come all over you.”

  My orgasm rattles down my spine as my balls tighten, and I jerk faster, harder, until I’m coming so damn hard on his chest.

  Then, as I’m panting and groaning, he reaches up to me, both arms tugging me close, pulling me against him. My release smears between our bodies, and neither one of us cares.

  All I want is to get close to him. And that’s what I do as he wraps his arms around me, pulls me to his chest, and kisses me.

  Soft. Tender. Gentle.

  I’m forgiven.

  When he breaks the kiss, he whispers, “Thank you for coming back to me.”

  “I’m so glad I did,” I say. Then I rise and grab his hand. “Let’s clean up.”

  He pulls up his jeans, and we head to the bathroom, where he grabs a washcloth and wipes off my chest, and I do the same to him.

  I walk into his bedroom, flop onto his bed, and beckon him to me.

  “You’re ready to go again?” he asks as he climbs over me.

  “Soon,” I say as I pull him on top of me and wrap my legs around the back of his thighs. “I told you so.”

  “Insatiable,” he says, shaking his head.

  “And you love it,” I add.

  “I do love it,” he says.

  I curl my hands around his neck as I hook my legs tighter around him, loving the contact after being intimate with him.

  “But mostly, I just want to make out with you for a little bit.”

  “Like this?” he asks, bending closer and brushing his lips to mine, sending a wave of tingles through me.

  Tingles. Jesus. I get tingles from the way he kisses me. I am so far gone it’s unreal.

  “Yes,” I say on a moan, as I draw him closer.

  As I bring my lips to his, I try to tell him everything that I’m dying to say.

  Everything I learned today.

  I tell him in the soft but urgent way I kiss him that I want him again and again.

  As I tighten my legs around his body, I try to tell him without words that I’m in love with him.

  And I hope he’s kissing me back the same way.

  32

  Dean

  It’s a little after twelve, and I make lunch. It’s weirdly domestic, but I like it. I cook a chicken and veggie stir-fry, since I know Fitz tries to eat as healthily as possible, same as me.

  Fitz stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking an iced tea and watching me.

  “I could get used to this,” he says.

  I eye his jeans, his bare, muscled chest. “Yes, me too. Please walk around shirtless literally all the time,” I say as I turn the heat down on the pan.

  “I will if you will. Speaking of, why are you wearing a shirt?”

  “Oh, you know, that thing called cooking. Figured it’d be better with clothes on.”

  He scoffs. “I beg to differ.”

  I shake my head as I plate the food. “Sit down. Time for lunch.”

  Fitz pats his belly. “Good. I’m starving.”

  I arch a brow. “You’re not starving. You’re several days and many meals from starving. You’re just hungry.”

  He finds cloth napkins in the cupboard and utensils in the drawer, and sets them down at the table. “No. I’m definitely starving. I didn’t eat breakfast. I skipped out on Emma when I realized what an ass I was, and then I came straight here.”

  I move to the table and set down the food. “So next time you’ll have learned your lesson. Don’t do a runner before the cook wakes up,” I say, sitting and picking up a fork. “I’m an excellent cook.”

  Fitz digs in, moaning around the food. “Damn. You are. This is amazing.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “I guess your cooking club comes in handy,” he says, deadpan.

  “Cooking classes,” I correct.

  “Whatever it is, it’s working. You can definitely make me breakfast tomorrow,” he says, then takes another bite.

  “Gee, thanks. I was hoping you’d let me.”

  He sets down the fork and leans across the table to give me a kiss.

  Then he returns to his meal, and as we eat, he asks, “So, what do you want to do today? Besides fuck?”

  “Well, that. Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he repeats.

  “I think the more important question is—what do you want to do?” I toss back at him. “Is there something you want to see? Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Borough Market?”

  He screws up the corner of his lips, thinking, then he shrugs. “What would you do?”

  “If I were you?” I ask.

  “Yeah. If you were me, and you had one day left to spend here.”

  “I’d just walk around the city,” I answer.

  “Then let’s do that.”

  We straighten up and leave, and when we hit the street, I take his hand.

  Fitz looks at our hands, then at me, and he smiles.

  My heart trips over itself with happiness.

  And sadness too, since this is all over tomorrow.

  Time takes on a surreal quality as we walk along the river.

  The clock ticks louder with every step, but I also can’t escape the sense that I’m living in a cocoon of time. That I’m wandering through a dream state of what it’s like to live one perfect day.

  The blue sky above blankets us, the river rolls beside us, and the sun warms my skin. It feels as if this could last, as if this could be my life.

  Here with him.

  I want so badly to believe in this illusion as we walk past the Tate and the Globe and I tell him about growing up here, as he tells me about California and New York. When we stop at the railing, elbows resting on the stone, watching the boats glide by, the illusion feels wholly real.

  He loops his arm around my lower back, yanking me a little closer to him as we stare at the water.

  “Do you ever get tired of this view?” he asks, gesturing to the Thames.

  It’s a murky brown, but that’s beside the point. It’s not the color of the water that matters. It’s the way it weaves and bends through the city, how it’s the city’s highway, bringing fame, fortune, respite, and certainty.

  I shake my head. “No. But I do think sometimes I take it for granted. I walk by, head down, lost in my own world, and don’t even bother to glance up, because it’s too familiar.”

  Fitz nods as he stares at the water. “You’ve got to remember to look up. To see what’s around you. I try to do that in New York.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Just try not to spend all my time on my phone as I walk around. To look at the restaurants and stores, the people, the buildings, the parks. To pay attention, you know?”

  “I do know what you mean.” I glance around. No one notices the hockey star, or us. We are anonymous. “Do you get recognized there?”

  “Sometimes I do. Sometimes people come up to me on the street.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s cool, actually—kind of a dream. My whole life, I wanted to be a pro athlete, and now I am. Having fans is a gift. So, when someone stops and says hi or asks if it’s me, I try to chat for a minute. Unless there’s some reason I can’t, like I have a raging boner, as I did at that softball place with you.”

  “Fair point. And I can see that. You interacting, sans erection. So, if some fan came up to you here, you’d chat for a bit?”

  Fitz glances around at the throng of people passing by, at the families, the fathers carrying youn
g children on their shoulders, at the men and women in suits marching past us, at the couples—men and women, women and women, men and men—walking along the river.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “But I’d make sure he wasn’t giving you sex eyes. If he was, I’d be all possessive and mine, mine, mine.”

  I crack up. “Yes, exactly. No doubt loads of gay men are giving you sex eyes.” I hold up a hand. “Wait. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to think about all the guys who’ll be hitting on you in literally a day when you return to the States.”

  He squeezes my waist. “Jelly, much?”

  I roll my eyes. “Jealous a lot,” I mutter, but I don’t say what’s tangoing on the tip of my tongue. What happens when you meet someone else? What happens when you want to go home with someone else?

  Those thoughts curdle my stomach.

  I wince.

  “Hey,” he says, regarding me closely. “What’s wrong? You look like you just swallowed a jalapeño.”

  “I like jalapeños.”

  “Yeah, me too. Wrong analogy, then. You look like you swallowed a cockroach.”

  I pretend to retch.

  “Exactly,” he says. “So, what is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Fitz pinches my waist. “It wasn’t nothing. What was it? Talk to me, babe.”

  I sigh, running my hand over the back of my neck. “It’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid. What is it?”

  I shrug, then tell myself, Why the fuck not? “I was just thinking about when someone does want to take you home in a week or a month or whatever.”

  His smile downshifts then disappears. “Won’t happen.”

  “Please. It will happen,” I scoff.

  “First, I’ve got the pact with my guys, and I’m sticking to it, so it won’t happen.”

  “But the pact ends eventually. In a month or something, right?”

  “About a week or so into the start of the regular season.”

  “So, that’s the only reason?”

  “You ass. The reason is you. I fucking want you. I don’t want anyone else.” Fitz turns to face me, looping both hands around my waist, tugging me against him. I wrap mine around his neck.

  “Yeah, I get that, Fitz. It’s just, down the road . . .”

  He leans in close, nuzzling my neck. “I can’t think about anyone else. Not now, not tomorrow.” He brushes the lightest kiss on my neck, then moves back to look at me. “Dean, do you want to talk . . .”

  “Yes,” I say, and my heart slams against my chest because I think I know what’s coming.

  The talk.

  The Can we do this? talk.

  And I want to have it, but it’s crowded and busy here.

  “Let’s go sit on a park bench.”

  “That’s so rom-com,” he remarks with a roll of his eyes.

  “Yeah, and if this were a movie, we’d both watch it.”

  “We so would.”

  I take his hand, guiding him away from the water and toward a nearby park. We find a quiet bench, away from foot traffic, among the grass and the trees.

  Fitz speaks first. “What are we going to do after tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “Do you think about it?”

  A laugh bursts from me. “Are you kidding me? I think about it all the time. If you were here, I’d make sure no one gave you sex eyes.” I furrow my brow and reconsider. “Well, I can’t make sure no one would do that, because you’re the hottest guy who’s ever walked into my bar, so I’m sure tons of guys would. But I’d damn well make sure everyone knew you were taken.”

  His smile is the stuff of legend. It’s like I’ve given him his greatest wish. “You’d go all caveman on me?”

  “Fuck, yes.”

  “What would you do?” Fitz asks, a little low and dirty. “Like, if we were in public, what would you do?”

  “Same thing I do now. I’d have my hands all over you. I’d drape an arm around your shoulder,” I say, demonstrating. “I’d make sure all the guys knew you were going home with me, and that no one else would get to touch you.”

  Fitz closes his eyes and lets out a needy rumble, swaying closer to me. When he opens his eyes, those blue irises are full of desire. Like they usually are. “You being possessive is my new favorite thing.” Then he blinks and shakes his head. “But stop distracting me.” He clears his throat and gives me an earnest look. “What can we do?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I imagine your schedule is ridiculously busy. You know mine is too.”

  He runs a hand over his beard. “We play three games a week. We’re on the road a ton. You work every day but Sunday and Monday.”

  I nod. “I do.”

  He’s quiet for a minute, eyes turned toward the people stretched out across the lawn, but not seeing them. He looks lost in thought. After a beat, he says, “But honestly, New York’s not that far from London.”

  I shoot him a skeptical stare. “Not that far?”

  “Well, it’s not San Diego-to-London far.”

  “Fine. True. But it’s still far, Fitz.”

  “Yeah, I’m just trying to work through scenarios,” he says, leaning back against the bench, rubbing his hand on my shoulder. “Like, if I had a couple days off and they lined up with your days off, would you come over and see me?”

  Would I? I know the answer, but I also can’t resist the chance to toy with him. “Depends.” My voice is coy.

  “Depends on what?” he asks, indignant.

  “Are you getting me a first-class ticket?”

  Fitz laughs, sliding a hand up my thigh. “Well, you have a first-class cock. I’m definitely going to miss this first-class cock.”

  I grin. “I get it. You’d be willing to fly me and my first-class cock over when you are horny.”

  He smirks, licking the corner of his lips. “Fuck, yeah.”

  I nod a few times. “I can live with that. My first-class cock and I can definitely live with that.”

  He pumps both fists. “Problem solved by the power of dick.”

  All I can do is laugh. We both do. We crack up, and it feels great to laugh with him.

  But soon, the laughter fades, and we’re back to the same place.

  The Will we? The Can we?

  “Seriously though, Dean?” he asks.

  I sigh, wishing there were an easy answer. “I think we just have to see how it goes. I mean, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound ideal, to be honest. Do you want a long-distance thing? It sounds kind of awful.”

  “It does. But I also don’t want zero of you.”

  “I feel the same. But I don’t want two percent of you either.” I turn and meet his gaze. “And look, I can’t just up and leave my world.” Before Fitz can say a word—because I am not taking a chance on him freaking out again—I hold up both hands. “I know you’re not asking me to. I’m not saying you are. I just want to be clear. I’m putting my cards on the table. There’s no bluffing here. My mum did that, and I won’t do the same.”

  He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “I get it. I do, I swear.”

  We sit and stare at the park, looking for answers and finding none.

  “Do you want to go?” I ask after a few minutes.

  He shakes his head. “No. I want to stay.”

  I know what he’s saying, and I want it too.

  But that’s not in the cards. Still, I sit on the bench with him for a little longer before we leave with nothing decided, because this is one of those problems that doesn’t have a solution.

  33

  Fitz

  Emma calls this the golden hour.

  It’s not sunset. It’s a little before, when the light is perfect, and every photo has that perfect hazy glow.

  Natch, I take plenty.

  Dean’s stopped giving me a hard time, and I’ve stopped pretending they’re for Amelia.

  They’re all for me.

  As we drink our five o’clock beers, I hold u
p my phone. “Smile for the camera.”

  “You mean for your wank bank, Fitz.”

  “I call it the spank bank. You call it a wank bank. Whatever. Just get over here.”

  My sexy Brit takes off his shades and gives me the best fuck me smolder ever. I snap that pic so fast.

  “Damn,” I say, looking at his dark-brown eyes on the screen. “That’s my new favorite shot of you and me. I am going to be looking at this a lot.”

  “Just not in the locker room, please.”

  My brow knits. “Dude, this is my bedtime viewing. I’m not looking at this in the locker room, because then I’d have a boner in front of my teammates. That is not going to happen.”

  Dean laughs. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  As I take another swallow of my beer, a tall guy runs by, earbuds in, exercise shorts on, Nikes pounding the pavement.

  “Shit,” I mutter.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t work out today. Or yesterday,” I say, slumping in the chair. “Fuck.”

  “And your training camp starts in a few days.”

  “I can’t skip a workout.”

  “It makes a difference? Every day?”

  “This close to the season, yeah, it does. Cardio, at least.”

  Dean reaches into his wallet, grabs some bills, tosses them on the table for the beers, then says, “Let’s go for a run.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I try to work out every day too.”

  “And it shows. But seriously, you want to run with me?”

  “Are you worried I can’t keep up? Because I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Also, I weigh about twenty-five pounds less than you, so I might have the advantage there,” he says, taunting me with a quick survey of my bulkier frame.

  “Oh no, you didn’t just unleash your secret competitive side on me.”

  He lifts a single brow. “Was it a secret?”

  I laugh, clapping my guy on the back. “No, but the thing is, I don’t have my running shorts or sneakers, and I don’t want to go back to my hotel and get them.”

  “Well, you won’t fit into my shorts,” Dean says.

  I snap my fingers, aw-shucks-style. “Damn, I was hoping we could start borrowing clothes.”