McCormick leans down and gives the dog a fist bump. “It’s my birthday,” he tells him. “You can lick me all you want.”
“Oh myGod,” I mutter, hiding my face behind the dessert menu.
The dog’s handler finally comes over, tugging gently. “He’s never done this before,” she says, genuinely flustered. “He usually doesn’t care for men.”
“Well, I’m not just a man,” McCormick says, beaming. “I’m ameal.”
Captain whines when he leaves and tries to circle back three times. McCormick watches him go like he’s just parted ways with an old friend. Then he looks at me and dabs a little morecologneon his neck from the tiny sample bottle in his pocket.
“You can’treapplyat the table,” I say.
“I can if it’s for the dogs.”
And somehow, that’s the most McCormick thing I’ve ever heard.
We get home with a to-go box full of fries. He’s still grinning from the dinner ordeal, unbothered that a dog tried to elope with him in public. He’s still wearing his KING DOG birthday crown, now a little lopsided, and his shirt’s somehow more undone than it was before. That’s the effect of chili cheese fries and nine people at the Tavern yelling“lick him again, Captain!”while McCormick basked in the attention.
I lock the door behind us, toss my keys, and turn to look at him, and he justbeams.
“You still smell like hot dog water,” I say, stepping closer.
He lifts his chin proudly. “Because Iamhot dog water. Iembodythe broth.”
“You know it’s literal meat juice, right? That’s not even a euphemism.”
He shrugs out of his hoodie. “It’s mynatural musknow. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
I raise an eyebrow, step in, and let my hands slide over his chest, bare under the flannel, warm, faintly greasy, and familiar.
He watches me with a little spark in his eyes. And then I lean down… andlicka slow stripe up the side of his neck.
McCormick makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a bark. “Stiles! What the?—”
I lick him again. Right beneath his jaw. “Mmm. Briny. Complex. Notes of Nathan’s and Ballpark.”
“Notes of heaven,” he mutters, eyes going wide.
I press him up against the wall and nibble just below his ear, where the last of the scent clings the strongest. “You’re disgusting.”
“You licked me.”
“You’restill disgusting.”
“Do it again.”
I do. He groans and drops the to-go box. Mac wraps his arms around me and murmurs into my hair, “Youlovemy meat sweat pheromones. Just admit it.”
I laugh against his neck, lips sticky with laughter and a little salt. “You know I do.”
And then we make out like two teens at a gas station hot dog roller. Which is, frankly, the only way this night could end.
West’s Mad Libs
This was a gift for McCormick’s birthday. West created it while sitting on the toilet.
Wienerpocalypse
You’ll need:
