The Dating Proposal

by Lauren Blakely

  “Seriously,” she demands. “How did you find me so you could go all caveman and demanding?”

  “I think you like the caveman in me.” I loop a hand around her waist and haul her in for another kiss, hard on the lips.

  When we separate, she rolls her eyes. “Duh. Yeah.”

  “The other day when you mentioned the girls’ night out, you told me you were going to The Tiki Bar. That’s how I found you. As to the why, I went surfing this afternoon, got clobbered by the Pacific a couple of times. And then I got pissed that I hadn’t manned up and told you I wanted to see you, so I decided to stop playing games. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer, and at that point, I was a man on a mission.”

  She hums sexily. “I’m your mission?”

  “Yeah, I think you are,” I say, and maybe there’s a part of me that’s terrified of turbulence again, that’s scared of rocking the boat at work, but another part wants to believe we can figure this out. I don’t know how, but I like this woman too damn much not to try.

  She plays with the ends of my hair, asking, “What’s your mission, then?”

  I run my fingers down her bare arm, my body electric as I touch her freely. “I think we should date.”

  “Because Bruce mentioned it? Even though he said he was joking.” Her tone is straight-up skeptical.

  “It’s not a bad idea. But that's not the reason. I want to, and I think you do too.” I meet her blue-eyed stare, waiting for her answer, wanting it to match mine.

  “I want it too,” she agrees softly, a little nervously.

  I tuck a finger under her chin. “But listen, I know you just want to have fun. I get that you’re not looking for anything more. I respect that. Let’s agree that this thing will be what it is. We won’t push it.”

  She nods. “We won’t define this thing.”

  “We don’t let it mess with our heads.”

  Her smile widens. “We’ll be adults. We’ll do modern dating on our terms.”

  “We’ll just date. That’s all. And we won’t expect anything more,” I say, because that seems to be the safest way to have her and to maintain the status quo back at the office.

  “Nothing serious. No expectations.”

  I hold up my hands, showing I have nothing to hide. “And if it needs to end, we agree to do it like adults.”

  “Not like saboteurs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We can be civilized grown-ups. We can fun-date.”

  “I’ll take that,” I say. “No-strings-attached dating.”

  She beams. “I think we just defined it. And defined a new category.”

  A waitress clicks her way over, parking a hand on her hip. “Can I get you something, sir?”

  “Get one of these drinks, Chris,” McKenna says, pointing purposefully at the flaming red glass in front of her.

  I give her a look like she’s crazy. “That’s not manly.”

  “Who cares? It’s tasty. Try it,” she says, and I lift the glass, but she stops me. “On my lips.”

  Like I’m going to resist that direct order. I drop a quick kiss to her mouth, aware of the waitress but unable to resist McKenna, who tastes like sugar and fire, and I’m dying for more of this cocktail on her delicious lips. I look to the waitress, answering her at last. “One of these.”

  When she leaves, McKenna slides a hand along my thigh. “Is this like an officially sanctioned date? Are we truly going to dissect it on your show?”

  “Depends on how good it is.”

  “How good do you think it’ll be?”

  I squeeze her calf. “I think it’ll be great. Call me confident, but I’m already going out on a limb and declaring it worthy of a second date.”

  She nods crisply. “Then we should do first date stuff.”

  I hope that involves a lot of nudity. I hope it involves her at my place as soon as humanly possible. “Such as?”

  “Music. Talk to me about music.”

  I laugh because even though I’m dying to get her naked, I’m more than happy to talk music. I go first with the questions. “You like retro tunes. What’s your favorite old standard ever?”

  “Ever? As in, all-time?”

  “Well, yeah. That would be ever.”

  She looks down. “It’s totally cheesy. You’ll laugh.”

  “Try me,” I say, eager to get to know her.

  She takes a deep breath. “Elvis. ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’”

  The look in her eyes tells me that costs her something to admit.

  24

  McKenna

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and I tense. Have I scared him? Does he think that means I’m some crazy, clingy girl?

  It’s just a song, I want to say. Not a declaration.

  But instead I wait.

  He leans into me and presses his forehead against mine. “That is an awesome song,” he says in a soft voice, and I can barely take it anymore, being this close to him. I want to kiss him all night long. The desire to touch him is so overwhelming it’s fogging my brain, and all I’m seeing, thinking, feeling is this wish to erase any distance between us.

  But then I remember, I can do all that now.

  We’re dating.

  Fun-dating is awesome.

  I take advantage of it, and I wiggle closer, stealing another kiss, a soft, whispery one that stops my breath, then he blazes a trail of sweet and sexy kisses down to my throat, and it’s almost sensory overload the way he ignites me. Forget tingles, forget goosebumps. That’s kid stuff compared to this. My body is a comet with Chris. I’m a shooting star from the way he kisses me.

  He looks at me, and the expression on his face is one of pride and lust. He knows he’s turned me inside out, and all the way on.

  We pull apart. I’m gasping. I shake my head, reconnecting thoughts, and somehow I remember what we were talking about. “You like Elvis?”

  “Love the King,” he says, his voice a sexy rumble, the aftereffects of our kiss. “Love that song.”

  A sunbeam bursts in my chest. My God, dating someone you like is fantastic. It’s like swallowing rainbows. “What about you? What other kind of music do you love?”

  “Everything,” he says with a sheepish grin.

  I shoot him a skeptical look. “Not possible.”

  “No? You sure? Completely sure it’s not possible?”

  I shoot him a look. “People say that when they don’t want to commit to a type.”

  He raises a hand like he’s taking an oath. “Swear to God. I’m kind of a music whore. I’ll listen to rock; jazz; show tunes, thanks to my sister; indie; alt; blues; old standards. I love music in nearly all forms, especially live music. I’ve actually been to two hundred twenty-seven concerts in my life.”

  I blink. “Wait. You count concerts?”

  He nods proudly.

  “You actually count?”

  “I have a list on Google Keep of every concert I’ve ever been to.”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s adorable and super geeky.” I clasp his cheek, stroking his five-o’clock stubble.

  He leans into my hand. “It’s the engineer in me, McKenna. What can I say? I like to keep track of things.”

  “I so need to get hold of your Google Keep lists.” I drop my hand, but I don’t disconnect from him. I set it on his leg, loving, no, adoring this freedom to touch him. It’s exhilarating. Like wearing skyscraper heels with death-defying confidence. Like changing your hair color without testing the look on an app.

  “And for that, I’m keeping my desk under lock and key when you come over.”

  “Hey, where do you live? You never told me.”

  “It’s top secret. But I’ll let you in on it.” He drops his voice to a clandestine whisper. “Russian Hill. Corner of Polk and Green.”

  “I love that neighborhood. There is a great little boutique a few blocks north on Polk Street where my sister took me shopping for my last birthday. She got me this bracelet, and then we had
cupcakes, and I wear the bracelet with nearly everything because it reminds me how awesome she is. And how much I like having someone who loves cupcakes as much as I do.” I show him the delicate rose-gold chain on my wrist.

  “Cupcakes are evidence of the existence of God. And your sister sounds fantastic.” Chris reaches, gently touching the bracelet. His fingertips graze the top of my hand as he moves along from my finger to my wrist, touching the metal. I am hypnotized by his touch, tugged into an orbit around him. His hands are strong and soft, and they make my skin warm all over, as if I’ve been lying in the sun, soaking in the delicious rays. He strokes the inside of my wrist briefly, but enough for a tiny whimper to escape my lips as my mind flashes forward to other things he might be able to do with his hands. I press my thighs together so I don’t grab him and test my theories in public.

  But in private, later? I’ll be all over that.

  “You know, McKenna,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along the rose-gold. “I like the way you dress. I noticed that about you the first time we met.”

  “You did?” This delights me immeasurably.

  “That time at the electronics store, the first thing I noticed was how hot you were.” He slides his hands up my arm, my hungry skin drinking in the wondrous sensation of his touch. “The second thing I noticed was you were funny. The third was that you were interesting. And the fourth thing I noticed was you had on this sexy outfit that kind of accentuated all the places I wanted to touch.”

  I smile. Or maybe I beam, lit from head to toe. Because I don’t know which of those four things I like better—hot, funny, interesting, or stylish enough to be sexy. I like them all for different reasons, but I have to say he saved the best for last. He likes my style. He likes what makes me me, and that’s all I need to fall totally under his spell, body and heart.

  “No one has ever said that to me,” I say as I linger on his eyes for a moment, his Hawaii eyes pools of green that stare intensely. He’s looking at me like he wants to strip me bare, and I desperately want that.

  God, I hope fun-dating includes hot banging.

  The waitress brings his drink. He takes a swallow, throws down some bills, and says, “Now, if memory serves, you once said you could take me down in Q*bert.”

  I grin. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Are you still up for it?”

  “Are you inviting me over?” I pray he says yes. Possibly even make offerings to the gods of banging.

  “I believe I am.”

  There is a goddess!

  We are so civilized in the Lyft, I want to give us a medal. We hold hands in the back seat and exchange naughty looks. I touch his arm. He glides his fingers along my legs.

  Okay, fine. We aren’t Goody Two-Shoes. He does try to slip that hand a little farther north.

  But he catches himself, jerking his hand out of my skirt and setting it primly on my knee as the driver stops at a red light on Van Ness.

  “I deserve a gold star for restraint, don’t you think?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Definitely. Do you have any stickers at your house? Maybe in that drawer next to your concert list?”

  “Oh, mock me, why don’t you, for my analytical brain?”

  I lean in closer and whisper in his ear, “It’s not your analytical brain I want tonight. It’s the dirty one.”

  He shakes his head in appreciation. “You are on fire. And I’m going to have a field day with you.”

  He dips his head to my neck and sucks on my skin, nipping me. I manage not to groan audibly, which I think is silver-star worthy.

  When the car arrives and we get out, the restraint time ends, but not in a frenzy.

  As soon as we reach the steps to his home, a classic San Francisco Victorian building, he closes his fingers over mine, gripping my hand in his. Within seconds, I’m in his arms, and we’re wrapped up in each other. His lips sweep mine, and I press my hands against his chest, and he does have the most fantastic body. He’s toned everywhere, strong everywhere, and I’m dying to get my hands up his shirt and feel his bare chest and his abs.

  He twines his fingers through my hair, and the way he holds me, both tender and full of want at the same time, makes me start to believe in possibilities. Start to believe I can try again, and that it’ll be worth it.

  Dangerous thoughts though. I vacuum them up. They don’t belong in this brand-new category of no-strings-attached dating.

  I focus on the physical. His lips are soft, so unbearably soft, and I can’t stop kissing him. He has the faintest taste of cherry and tequila on his lips, and it drives me wild. Or maybe he’s driving me wild as he tugs me against him, the press of his body revealing his want, his desire for me. He’s so hard, so aroused, and I’m not kidding when I say it thrills me to the marrow of my bones.

  There’s no space between us, and I don’t want there to be space between us. I grab his T-shirt, my fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

  He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his voice low and smoky. “Get inside.”

  I flash him my naughtiest smile. “I could say the same thing to you.”

  25

  McKenna

  He unlocks the main door, and we walk up two flights of stairs. As we round the stairwell, his hands are on my waist, and he’s telling me all the things he wants to do to me.

  Undress you now.

  Strip you naked.

  Kiss you everywhere.

  Taste you, touch you, feel you.

  Make you come again and again and again.

  And on that note, I’m officially liquefied. “You know, it’s not going to take me long when you talk like that.”

  “Good. That’s the goal. And then I’ll do it one more time.” He opens the door to his place, and it’s spacious, with a wide living room that stretches the whole length of the building, it seems. I spot a few arcade games off in the corner, including Q*bert, and for a moment I pretend I’m a zombie, drawn to it. Chris circles his hands around my waist, picks me up, and carries me.

  He turns me around, setting my butt on the console. His eyes blaze with wicked intent. “Want to play Q*bert a whole new way?”

  “Yes,” I answer breathlessly. It is the only answer.

  I glance down at my short black skirt, and he pushes it higher, practically growling when he gets the first peek at white lace. He bends lower, kissing the inside of my thighs, softly trailing his tongue from my knee all the way up, then darting over to the other leg.

  “You taste like sugar,” he murmurs.

  “I dusted myself in it before I went out tonight.”

  He laughs lightly then presses a hot kiss to the lace, and I can’t make any more jokes. I moan.

  It feels glorious to be kissed like this.

  He tugs off my underwear and spreads my legs. “Look at you. All hot and wet.”

  He bends lower and licks my thigh, and the sound I make is obscene. I sound like an animal, and I feel like one too.

  He groans his approval. “I like that. Keep that up all you want.”

  I moan his name as he teases me. He nibbles lightly on my thigh as his strong hands spread me wider. I accidentally bump the start button, and even though he hasn’t put a quarter in the game, the theme music from Q*bert begins. I laugh, and so does he, but then my laugh turns into a long, low moan at the first flick of his tongue on me. I’ve entered an altered state, buzzing with bliss, crackling with heat. He’s magnificent, his tongue divine as he traces delirious lines up and down my center, making me whimper.

  My noises seem to drive him. Each sound that tumbles from my lips makes him groan too. We become a feedback loop of wanting and giving, of taking and consuming, as I burn hotter with every single touch. I’m in heaven. I grip the edge of the game console as he devours me with his mouth, somehow both soft and hungry in the fevered slide of his lips.

  His hands slink under my thighs, and he lifts my legs onto his shoulders, draping them over his back. I’m vaguely aware that I’m so
completely vulnerable, giving myself to him, but it feels so right. I let go completely, panting as I say his name and tell him how good it feels.

  He brings me to the edge of bliss and shatters me with an orgasm that’s as endless as it is intense. I let go of the side of the game and grab his hair, holding on to him as I come hard, seeing stars, seeing distant galaxies.

  When my vision clears, I find him standing and staring at me with those dreamy eyes that reflect everything I want. I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, tasting what he just did to me. “That was out of this world. You know how to go down on a girl.”

  He kisses my forehead. “That’s because I can’t get enough of you. And now I want all of you.”

  “Have me.”

  He tugs me off the game and carries me to his bedroom where he strips me in seconds flat.

  I’m a speed racer myself as I yank off his shirt, stopping to savor the sight of his chest. My fingers itch to finally touch him, and I trace the hard lines everywhere, from his beautifully defined pecs, down across each hard ab to the edge of the promised land.

  As he unzips his jeans and shoves them off, my busy hands make their way down to his boxer briefs. I cup his erection, thrilling at the feel of him through the fabric. He grabs my hand, stroking my palm against his hard length.

  “You drive me crazy. You have since I met you,” he rasps.

  “Let’s drive each other crazy.” I pluck at the waistband of his briefs. “And to do that, I’m going to need to remove these.”

  “Be my guest,” he says as I strip off his underwear.

  He’s naked in front of me, and I can’t get enough. My eyes roam up and down his body, admiring his long legs, his toned arms, the shape and tightness of his body. It’s like he’s been carved by the waves he rides, and my mouth waters.

  Especially as I touch his hard, hot length.

  He feels so heavy in my hand, thick with wanting, pulsing against my palm. It’s intoxicating to know I’ve done this to him. That we do this to each other.