“Am I early? You’re not dressed,” D greets me—or rather, doesn’t greet me—when I open the door.
I look down, scanning my body to make sure I’m not experiencing Early Onset Dementia. Did I forget to put my clothes on? Nope. Fully covered—except for my arms—in a short sleeve silk top and jeans. It’s a balmy November evening, even for LA. No need for long sleeves.
“What are you talking about? You’re right on time, and I am dressed.”
“Oh…guess I’m a little overdressed.” D shoves his hands into the pockets of his sports jacket. “When you said you wanted to pick the place I assumed it would be…’
“What? You thought I would pick somewhere we would get two nibbles and a check requiring a month’s salary?” I bite back a smile while assessing his attire. I can’t stop myself from scanning him from head to toe. He’s ridiculously beautiful. I squelch the impending thought, he looks scrumptious in his navy sports jacket, white open-collar dress shirt, and grey dress pants. Nice. He looks nice. Not scrumptious.
“You should know me better than that, D. I require some good old greasy food to maintain the energy required to whoop your butt. Hang on. Let me grab my purse.” I turn to get my purse from the kitchen counter. “You look very nice, though.” I glance over my shoulder.
“Whoop my butt? I thought we were going to dinner?” he calls after me.
“We are. We’re going to a place I can do my two favorite things: eat unnecessary amounts of artery-clogging food and beat you at every game we play.” I saunter past him with a contented smirk, pulling the door closed behind us.
I can’t miss his shiny red vintage car parked two spaces down the street. “I’m pretty sure those are not your favorite things to do,” he says in a smug tone while opening the passenger side door for me.
I stop short. My leg raised in midair to climb into the truck, my hands clutching the door frame on either side. Panic sweeps over me. Does he remember? Or is he going to bring up the night I drank too much and behaved like an idiot? Other than my telling him I never wanted to think about it again—on our walk to my parents’ cottage, the morning after—we haven’t discussed not talking about it. But since we haven’t talked about it, I thought it was an unspoken mutual decision never to speak about it. God. Nervous energy is racing through me, making my thoughts tangle together.
D places a hand under my elbow to help me up into the truck. I step back and brush his hand away. “What do you mean?” I blurt out the indignant question.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” He chuckles.
“What do you mean they’re not my favorite things? How do you know what my favorite things are?” I bite out.
“I mean, I’ve known you long enough to know surfing tops your Favorite Things To Do list. But since I didn’t bring my wetsuit, I don’t think we’re having dinner on our surfboards.” His brow pinches, and he shakes his head. “Geez. Relax, will ya? What’s the problem?”
“Um. Nothing. On second thought, I’ll drive.” I stick my palm out, waiting for the keys. If I’m driving, I won’t be able to behave like a nervous ninny, overreacting to every comment he makes.
“What? Why? You know, you’re being extra weird, even for you.” He clamps his fist around the keys.
“No, I’m not. You don’t know where we’re going. So, give.’ I wiggle my fingers for the keys in a come-hither motion.
“So, tell me where we’re going, and then I’ll know.” He crosses his arms over his chest, still clutching the keys.
“Stop being such a stubborn jerk, D. I want to surprise you. What is it? You don’t trust me to drive your precious car? Maybe this whole dinner thing was a bad idea after all.” I turn toward my house. No maybe about it. This was a terrible idea.
“No. Wait. Of course, I trust you to drive my car. You had a great teacher. After all, I’m the one who taught you how to drive a stick.” He scratches his head like he’s confused and holds the keys out to me.
Hmph. Good thing he doesn’t remember how he taught me to drive his stick. Or didn’t teach me, as it were. I snatch the keys from his hand.
I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps we can’t go back to being playdate buddies. Not if everything he says sounds like a sexual innuendo to me because I can’t forget what it felt like to come apart while watching him do the same. Or because I can’t forget what it felt like when D mercilessly pounded into me.
I’m terrified. I can’t be with D the way I want to. But I can’t be without him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wolfe
“Yeeesss! Win-ner and champ-i-own. Boom! Take that, you looza.” My victory celebration may be excessive, but it’s required if I want to maintain my balls, which are diminishing every second we’re here.
Pip’s brilliant restaurant idea for a dinner date, or whatever we’re calling this excursion, was Dave and Buster’s. I thought she would pick some quiet, pretentiously expensive restaurant as payback for the way I’ve been bugging her to go out with me.
I should’ve known better. I should’ve known she’d pick the one restaurant where we could eat in between her beating me at every damn game in the place. Doesn’t matter what it is: Mario and Sonic, Ghostbusters, Fish Bowl Frenzy, the girl whoops my butt—as she put it.
So, when my last ball swishes in, and I beat her at Super Shot Basketball by ten points, I’m razzing her and celebrating like I just won the NBA finals, jumping up all around Pip and fake shooting like I’m sinking imaginary basketballs.
“Yeah. Woot. Woot,” Pip’s tone is flat and sarcastic as she slow claps. “You managed to win one game. You do realize you’re like a foot taller than me, right?”
“Go, ahead. Make your excuses,” I taunt, grabbing my jacket from where I had tossed it so I could play without any restriction, and her purse, which is lying next to it.
“Okay, Karim Abdul. Let’s eat. You shouldn’t be jumping like that yet, and I’m starving.” She snatches her purse from me and pushes me out of her way.
“Aww. Did the wittle pip-squeak burn up all her reserves trying to beat the big, strong man at basketball?” I fake pout and then cross box into the air to continue my celebration as the current Dave and Buster’s alpha basketball hero.
“Yes.” Pip turns and sticks out her bottom lip, imitating my pouting. “I burned up all my energy letting the big man-child win.” She pivots and walks away.
For a moment her words don’t register. All I can think about is her full, luscious, strawberry tasting lip, begging for me to bite it and then lick it. And then it hits me.
“Wait. What?” I chase after her. “You did not let me win. I beat you fair and square.” Right? I beat her. Didn’t I?
“Of course, you did,’ she says matter-of-factly as she slides into a booth. It’s in an area where there are no arcade games. The immediate quiet is a welcome sound to my thumping eardrums.
“You little monster.” I slide into the seat next to her without thinking about it. “You did not let me win. You’re just saying that because you can’t stand losing to me.”
She opens a menu. “Yes, Wolfe. You’re the biggest, baddest Super Shot player in all the land,” she mocks me, without taking her eyes off the menu.
“That’s it, Andersen. You are so going down.” With a swift move, I slide over, pinning her against the wall. “We’ll see who’s the baddest.” Without giving a crap about our current location, I begin tickling Pip in the spot I know she’s most sensitive—just under her ribs.
Pip is squirming on the slick vinyl seat, causing her to slide down onto her back. She tries to push me off her and swipe my hand away while giggling in sporadic squeals, “D, stop!”
Our juvenile playtime continues for several seconds until an intrusive throat being cleared distracts my mission to torture Pip with tickles and wrap myself up in her warm musical laughter. Pip bolts straight up in her seat. I use the hand I was tickling her with to give a nonchalant tug on her shirt and pull it down into place, c
overing the silky skin our wrestling has left exposed. I’d rather be pulling her top off and tickling her nipples with my tongue, but I’m reasonably certain the waitress wouldn’t approve. “Can I take your order now?” her indignant tone and pursed lips are evidence she’s not amused by our antics.
“Pip? You ready to order? Or should we find a dark corner to finish working up our appetite?” The waitress’s mouth drops open. I’m pretty sure the pole up her ass moves higher. Pippa’s cheeks warm to a blush. I’m waiting for Pip to reprimand me for my crass remark. I couldn’t stop myself, though. The way the stuffy waitress is glaring at us, you’d think we were screwing in the booth rather than just having some fun.
“No, thank you.” Pip smiles, lifting her menu. “Let’s wait until after we eat and then find somewhere to screw off the calories,” she adds without taking her eyes off the menu. “Um…let’s see…I’ll have an extra-large sweet potato fries, a large onions rings, and a double black bean burger. Thanks.” She hands the menu to the stunned waitress. “Babe? What would you like?” Pip asks while running her hand up my thigh in a long stroke. Have to admit, I’m kinda stunned myself.
“Uh…yeah…I’ll have all the pre-game appetizers and a triple bacon burger.” I hand over my menu.
“All…all of them? That’s a lot of food, sir,” the waitress stutters out.
“Yes. Sir,” Pip purrs in my ear. “I’m going to have to take extra time to burn all those calories off for you.” Jesus Christ. I don’t know what she’s doing. But my dick is standing at attention hoping she’s serious.
“Any…anything to…to drink?” The flustered waitress wipes a hand across her brow.
“No!” Pip and I shout simultaneously. “I mean, I’ll have unsweetened ice tea,” Pip answers in a calmer tone.
“I’ll have the same.” I bite back a smile. Guess neither of us wants an alcohol-induced repeat-wedding-weekend performance.
“Could you rush our order, please?” Pip asks. “I don’t think I can wait much longer to fuck my boyfriend.” She smiles demurely at the waitress, who drops her pen and order pad. I’m almost beginning to feel sorry for her.
The waitress, whose cheeks have flamed to crimson, retrieves her pen and pad and scurries off without saying a word. Meanwhile, my throbbing erection is ready to punch through my pants.
Not sure how the waitress is going to handle our little show. Either she’ll bring our food in record-breaking time, or she’ll call the cops and have us arrested.
“What the hell was that?” I sputter out in a laugh.
“Sorry. I couldn’t take her judgmental attitude.” Pip slides down the bench, putting space between us.
“No. That was great.” I reach over to touch her shoulder, but she leans away.
“I think you’d be more comfortable on the other side of the booth.” She tips her head to direct me to the other side. And my sexy, teasing, friend is gone, replaced by my polite physical therapist.
“Okay. Sure. No problem.” Grabbing a folded napkin from the table, I shake it out and hold it over my crotch as I stand. Because my cock is having a huge problem moving away from Heaven.
“So…um…this is nice. I’ve missed you.” I readjust myself under the table in an attempt to get comfortable.
“You’ve seen me almost every day for weeks. How could you miss me?” She purses her lips. I stare at them for a moment. They’re in a perfect configuration to be kissed. Long and hard.
“D?’
“Huh? Oh…yeah…but not like this. Not like we used to before…I mean…” Her elbow is propped on the table, her chin resting on the palm of her hand. She tilts her head a bit and studies me. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t help me out, just watches me squirm in my seat.
The nervous waitress shows up with our drinks and nearly throws them on our table while running past. You’d think she doesn’t like us or something.
“Um…so you still seeing the animal dude?” I ask and take a long swallow from my ice tea. The question I swallow along with the icy drink is, are you still fucking Dr. Dickhead?
“Who?” So, this is how she wants to play it, pretend she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“You know. What’s his name? Jack?” Jack off. “Jason?” Jiz head.
“Oh. You mean Josh. No. I haven’t seen him since…um…since I started at Elite. My schedule is too hectic right now for socializing.”
“Thank fuck,” I mumble out on a relieved breath into my glass.
“What?”
“Huh? Oh, nothing. I was just saying, I can understand. I see how crazy busy you are at the clinic. Too bad, though. He seemed like a nice guy.” And I’d sprain my other nut to keep you busy for another month or two and away from him.
“Oh, really? You thought he was a nice guy.” She smirks.
“Yeah. He was okay. If you like that type. I mean, not the right type for you. But…”
“Hmm. And here I thought you didn’t like Josh. After all, you did threaten to rip his arm off, along with a few other threatening pleasantries.”
“What? No, I didn’t.” Wait. Did I? Pip and I were sitting at the bar and…
“Um…never mind.” Pip interrupts my thought process. “He knew you were drunk. No hard feelings.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up the douche. But I need to know where we stand. Where I stand. If she was still fucking the asshole, I don’t know what I would do.
Our food is delivered to the table by two guys carrying trays loaded with everything we ordered.
“Wow. We ordered a lot. Looks good. Let’s hurry and eat.” Pip begins shoving fries in her mouth like she’s never seen food. But I think it’s an attempt to stop talking, to shut down again.
Nope. Not going back to being awkward around each other. “You want to hurry and eat so you can burn off the calories by having your way with me like you told the waitress?” I give her a wry grin while popping a fry into my mouth.
Without missing a beat, she swallows her fry, runs her tongue along her bottom lip in a slow, sweeping tease and says in a soft voice, “I am going to burn off these calories while having my way with you.” Holy fuck.
The ice cubes rattle in her glass as Pip sucks down her ice tea. The provocative comment and her sucking lips wrapped around the straw have my hopeful dick twitching again.
“How’s your leg feeling?” She continues teasing the straw with her tongue.
“My leg is fine,” I blurt out. What the hell does she have in mind? I’m dying here.
“Good. Because I’m about to humiliate you in Dance Dance Revolution. Best, most fun way in the world to burn off calories.” She gives me a smug grin and bats her lashes.
Fuck. Yup. My leg is fine. My balls, on the other hand, are turning bright blue. Not to mention, she knows damn well I’m terrible at the stupid dance game. But I guess I won’t complain. I’ll willingly take the loss to have the chance to watch her sweet ass—in those tight jeans—doing all the hot moves she’s mastered for the game. It’s not as good as finding a dark corner to work off the hundred zillion calories we’re eating. But beggars can’t be choosers. Until she’s the one begging me, that is.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Heaven
“I’ll admit he’s an idiot most of the time. But I think it’s sweet the way he sings to Trace.”
“Sweet? He’s acting like a fucking fool—again. What is his obsession with singing his drippy heart out in front of people?”
It’s Karaoke night at the Flying Puck. Dak and Trace are staying at Dalt and Nikki’s for the weekend. They just got back from their honeymoon-slash-Save All the Coral trip. Since it’s a rare night when the guys don’t have a hockey game, and everyone’s here, we decided to make a night of it. Karaoke is another checkmark on my Favorite Things To Do list. We’re seated at a table in front of the stage.
D’s recovered from his strain but continues to come to the clinic almost every day to use the gym. Good news is, he and I are back to our fr
iends hanging out status like we were before The Incident—which as far as I’m concerned, shall never be discussed as long as we both shall live. I’ve been having a sadistically great time at beating him in arcade games, surfing competitions, miniature golf, bowling—any activity which doesn’t require being alone with him. Although, Karaoke isn’t a competitive activity, it keeps us surrounded by other people. Precisely how I want it, to keep me from making any more foolish mistakes. Bad news is, Wolfe detests Karaoke.
He wanted to get a blanket and lay on the beach—just him and me—to “stargaze.” Stargazing alone with D sounded much too hazardous for my heart’s health. After some pretty-please, begging on my part, D reluctantly agreed to come here.
My goofy brother is up there being all gooey, singing his trademark song for Trace, the same one they danced to at their reception: Tracey by The Cufflinks. Everyone in the bar is having a blast because as much as I hate to admit it, Dak has a great voice. It’s not the first time he’s done something like this. He did the same thing when they were in college to get Tracey to forgive him for yet another stupid thing he did. Stupid things must be in our genetic coding.
Tracey, as well as every other woman in the place, is swooning over the big dope. Meanwhile, Wolfe is gagging over the “asinine” spectacle my brother is making. Wolfe’s word, not mine.
“You should totally try it, D. It’s so much fun. It’s liberating getting up there singing your heart out.”
“Oh? You mean like the liberating, letting go, vibrating higher, thing you did at the resort?” He lifts a brow and gives me a smug grin.
“No. Absolutely nothing like that.” I give him a smug grin right back and lift my virgin ice tea in a mock toast. I’ve continued my moratorium on alcohol, at least whenever I’m around D.
Cross Crease (On The Edge Book 3) Page 19
