I'm suddenly aware that he's looking at me. I'm not sure why. I put a lot of effort into setting my glass back on the bar, making sure not to spill it, trying to look much more sober than I am and being vaguely aware that there's no way I'm pulling it off.
Saxophone sexy. Yeah. Definitely how I'd put it. When he's talking, all his words sound fluid. Pretty. I turn and lean my chin on my fist, bracing my elbow on the edge of the bar and look at him like I'm deeply engaged in whatever the fuck he's talking about. But with an edge to it, not the darkly gravel and ground glass of say...Vin Diesel...but it has a distressed, masculine quality like it's been hit with rough sandpaper a few times.
Shit. I'm looking at him again. His eyes are really dark. Deep brown. Deep, easy to look at. Easy to fall into. Easy to notice those crinkles at the corners when he looks at me and smiles. Easy to think he might be thinking...
Oh God, I have got to go home. If I keep drinking with Stone I am going to do something extraordinarily stupid.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, beyond some very fuzzy images of Stone's lips, I think I might remember Lindy asking Stone if he was OK taking me home. It dawns on me that at some point we switched venues. We're not at the brewpub where we had lunch, we're at the basement bar in the old jailhouse. And I seem to have leveled up to hard liquor.
I twirl on the bar stool a little too fast in my attempt to ask Stone how we ended up here and if he really told Lindy he would get me home.
His hand reaches out to catch me before I go a full 360 and probably slide off the leather stool onto the floor but since I was about to say something, and since I'm wasted drunk, my arm is in the air for emphasis, so his hand lands on my knee.
It stops the bar stool alright. It also stops my heart just a little.
Stone's laughing, probably at how drunk I am or at how surprised I must look. I can't remember him ever touching me before, not even casually. It's...umm...I can literally feel my head wobble on my neck as I look down at where his fingers remain lightly braced against my knee.
The touch is so casual. So nonchalant. So benign.
OK, Maddie, what's left of my conscious brain reaches deep inside to pull my better judgment together, you are not 22 anymore. Just because a guy goes out drinking with you does not mean he's interested. This is Stone, for fuck's sake! Hookers & Blow from across the hall. He's not drunk, he's not coming on to you, and he's not an option.
I straighten my posture and consider my nearly empty drink while I let the slightly coarse quality of his voice caress my ears.
It really sounds like he's saying something interesting. Something about wishing we'd done this sooner. About missed connections? No. That's me, that's in my head. Me and Stone...one big missed connection listing. Just neighbors in a downtown office building, out drinking because we've never done it before and I'm moving away at the end of the week so this is our last chance to do it.
There I go, staring at him again. I like the goatee. When did he let that grow in? I don't remember him having a beard when he moved in next to us. I like the salt and pepper, even if the pepper is more of a dark brown than actual pepper. Salt and...suede? Is that a thing? Fuck I'm drunk.
It takes a lot of will power to keep myself from reaching out to stroke the whiskers on his chin. It's a good look on him. Very masculine. Adds a distinguished look to a face that's always been a tad too...fuck I'm drunk...cute.
I really need to get home. I need to stop drinking before I forget where I am and who I'm with. I need to get home and fall down and pass out and I definitely need to stop looking at Stone while the words "fuck me" roll through the booze addled crevices of my brain.
Oh God! That would be so bad. I absolutely cannot, under any circumstances let those words come out of my mouth.
"Fuck me."
Huh? I whirl to face Stone again, trying to determine if he just said what I think he said. Never mind that the context is totally different than the way it sounded in my mind, it's mostly that it's the first thing I've actually heard him say since we were talking about hand jobs at lunch despite the amount of talking we've been doing since.
Ugh. Lindy. That's what's wrong. She has zero filter. She got us started on that entirely inappropriate conversation and now that's probably why my brain is off in this direction. Well, let's face it, that and I haven't had sex in nine months, and I think I'm personally responsible for finishing off half the bar's bottle of Jack Daniels tonight.
"I have to feed the cows," Stone's looking at the clock on his phone. I notice the watch on his wrist. It has heavy brushed silver links and the band rests loosely over the bone in his wrist just below the rolled up sleeve of his button down shirt.
It doesn't strike me as odd in the slightest that he's wearing a pricey watch but using the clock on his phone instead.
Because I am hella drunk.
And maybe I should have Stone drop me off with Lindy, since my place is in the opposite direction of...any...cows...did he say?
Silently, I force my brain to calculate just how long it's been since I've been out drinking like this. A really long time, is the best my brain is able to come up with.
So maybe Stone isn't available. Maybe he's not interested. Maybe he's a really fucking bad idea even if he was-- I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow and I can't even remember the last time I stayed out late, partying like a rock star on a school night with a member of the opposite sex.
Mmm, I miss men. I used to have lots of guy friends. Before Adam. See? I can totally be platonic with a guy! And go out drinking with him and not do something asinine and embarrassing like grab his cock.
So it is totally fine if I hang out with Stone for a little while longer. And enjoy the way he smells. And the toned forearms with the strong wrists that connect to really nice hands that are all on casual display beyond the rolled cuffs of his shirt.
Totally platonic.
Just friends.
Drinking buddies.
Walking out of the bar, trying not to look drunk as my shoulder bounces off the wall while Stone holds the door open for me like a fucking gentlemen with a smile that doesn't look nearly as condescending or amused as it ought to.
Going to feed some cows in the middle of the night.
Like grown ups.
Not even the littlest bit in danger of jumping on his lap and riding him like a bull.
Because...psh...it's Stone, for fuck sake.
Read Maddie and Stone’s story!
(There might be some "real life" characters involved in this one!)
About Rocklyn
In real life, my endings tend toward the "happily for now" rather than the "ever after."
Some people will tell you that's because I'm jaded. I prefer to think of it as "unwilling to settle."
I like writing steamy scenes between boys that are all hard muscle and soft hearts and the women they choose to claim as their own.
And my book boyfriends always measure up to my standards!
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An Elegant Solution: Arranged Marriage Romance Page 10
