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ALEXViolet tastes like chocolate and wine. Her lips are soft, and she does this thing with her tongue—there she goes again. I remind myself we’re in my car, in a parking lot; it’s not okay to get her naked.
Violet breaks the kiss. “Um, hi.” Her hand is on my chest, her face flushed. I’m almost all the way out of my seat, on top of her.
“Shit. Sorry. You taste really good.” Because that’s an excuse for jumping her in my car.
She licks her lips. “Thanks. So do you.”
I rearrange myself, and put the car in gear. “Let me show you where I live.”
In the past five years, I’ve been on a handful of dates where I’ve been interested enough to go on a second one. Of those, very few made it to the third date. Even fewer stepped foot through my door. While I might appear in the tabloids frequently, I prefer privacy in my personal life. I take back roads to the outskirts of the city.
“You said you didn’t have a lair,” Violet says as I turn into my driveway. The house is almost completely obscured by a bend in the drive.
I laugh. “I don’t. I promise.”
“You better not. I’m not into lairs.” The house comes into view. “Oh, wow. This is definitely not lairish.”
I pull into the four-car garage where I store my toys. There’s a Torino Fastback painted flashy orange with black stripes, a speedboat, two Sea-Doos, and a pair of four-wheelers.
“You have a lot of things with engines.”
“This is just the stuff I keep here. I have lakefront property an hour away and a cottage in Ontario with more water toys. It’s where I spend my time in the off-season.”
“Sidney has a cottage. I always picture them as being kind of run-down, like a shack or something. His is more like a house on a lake.”
“Do you ever go?” Maybe Butterson’s Facebook pictures came from a vacation there.
“We try to make the trip once a summer. I’m not very good at water sports.”
“Water skiing isn’t hard. I’m sure I could teach you.”
Violet snorts. “Yeah. I can barely get the hang of yoga, and you want to strap boards to my feet and drag me across water?”
“You make it sound dangerous.”
“All sports are dangerous. Especially hockey.”
Once inside, I hang up her coat. Her dress is killing me. It’s one of those wrap things with a tie at the waist. I try not to stare; it makes her tits look fantastic. I don’t want her to think the only reason I invited her here is for sex. I haven’t spent the past month trying to get her to go out with me to screw it up. However, I can appreciate her stunning cleavage.
To avoid jumping her immediately, I give her a tour of my house. I don’t take her upstairs, seeing as my bedroom would be a bad place to end up right now. I show her the main floor, then the game room in the basement. It’s as far from my bedroom as we can get.
“You’re such a dude.” Violet snort-laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.
Maybe the eighty-inch flat screen, movie style recliners, gaming consoles, and accompanying chairs are a bit much. “I don’t get a lot of down time, but when I do, I like to play.”
“I’m not making fun. This is great. Buck would be in heaven here. So would Sidney.” Violet checks out my wall of trophies.
I hope they don’t make me look like an arrogant ass. I worked hard for them; I’m proud of my accomplishments. My figure skating trophies—I have a lot of those, too—are all at my mother’s house in my childhood bedroom.
“You don’t need to look at those.”
I stand behind her, admiring her ass. It really is nice. Soft. Plush. Good for grabbing. I’d like to feel that curve against my dick again. Later. Maybe.
Violet turns around, her tone teasing. “Yeah, I’m sure you have them all out here so people ignore them.”
“They work with the room, don’t they?”
“They’re impressive. I only ever won the participation ribbon on Track and Field Day. If I had these, I’d highlight them with a flashing neon arrow. In my personal opinion, you’re understating your awesomeness.”
“You don’t think flashing neon is too overt?”
“Not even a little.” She scans the room, pausing at the posters hung on the wall. “Wow! Look at all those ads. Ohhh. You’ve even done one for Tim Horton’s. I finished that tin in like a week.”
“I must look like a narcissist, eh?” I rub the back of my neck, more uncomfortable about these than I am the trophies.
She glances over her shoulder. “Are any of these hanging in your bedroom?”
“Uh. No.”
“Not even the milk ad?”
I grin. “Not even the milk advertisement.”
“Then you’re not a narcissist as far as I can tell. By the way, if you happen to have a spare copy of the milk ad lying around and you weren’t sure what do to with it, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”
