Ripley: Dear Goddess of All the Orgasms, please rain them down on our friend Chloe tonight.
Bridget: Can I get an amen?
Ripley: But you’d better take a picture of his driver’s license and send it to us.
Chloe: In case he cuts my head off?
Ripley: Yes, Chloe. In the event of your beheading, it would be incredibly helpful to know who did it.
Bridget: Also, we already knew where you were. We do have your location.
Chloe: But no googling him unless there’s going to be a second date.
Sometimes men are more attractive the less you know about them.
I check myself in the mirror one more time, then rush off to the elevator, which takes an interminable amount of time to arrive, since everyone knows time slows to a crawl when you’re horny.
As I pace in the hallway, I’m a little tingly imagining how tonight might unfold.
And on the ride to the lobby too. But once I step off the elevator, I pause. Am I making a mistake again because I didn’t think things all the way through? Like I did that night in Vegas when I impulsively married my former high school boyfriend, after reconnecting with him at our high school reunion?
Look where that last-minute choice got me. Divorcedandfired.
But all the more reason to keep tonight firmly in the hookup zone.
Ready for whatever the night brings, I cross the lobby and turn the corner into the bar. My heart stupidly skips a beat when I find Sawyer exactly where he promised he’d be. At the end of the bar, with a glass of iced tea in front of him. Music plays overhead. Sounds like Journey. Maybe “Don’t Stop Believin’”?
And is Sawyer…singing along to it?
Well, air singing, since he’s sort of mouthing the words, drumming out a beat on the counter with his hands.
I smother a smile so I don’t look too giddy when I walk his way. But really, this is a great sign. Would a beheader sing along to Journey? I don’t think so. I march over, eye the stool next to him, and say, “Is this seat taken?”
Sawyer rises, a knowing look in his eyes as he sweeps them up and down me in a shameless tour of my body. But he doesn’t answer my question with words. He answers with actions when he cups my cheek, strokes his thumb down my jawline, then comes in close, dipping his face toward mine. Giving me time to say no.
I don’t. I lift my chin in invitation.
He drops his mouth to mine, and for a few dizzying seconds, the kiss is as slow and sweet as a summer afternoon. It’s hazy and warm as he brushes his lips across mine in a teasing whisper of a kiss.
It’s deliciously unexpected. I’m not used to men knowing their mind, making a plan, and sticking to it. But I think I could get used to it in the kissing department, since this kiss goes straight to my head. And, well, my bikini. I’m aching between my thighs already. I grab the collar of his shirt, twisting my fingers around the material so I can hold on tight.
He kisses me for a few more delirious seconds, that trim beard whisking across my face in a light scratch. When he breaks the kiss, I figure that’s when we’ll sit down, but there’s no reprieve. After his mouth quirks up in atoo pleasedgrin, he rasps out, “Come here, Chloe.”
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“Closer,” he says, hauling me against him before he takes another kiss. This one knocks the breath right out of me. It’s hard, demanding, full of teeth and tongue and desire. He kisses me like he wants to fuck me. His tongue explores my mouth. One hand grips my face. The other ropes around my waist.
There’s no hesitation from him.
No games.
No dicking around.
I have a feeling that Sawyer is unapologetic. A man who wants what he wants and tonight that’s…me. When I’ve been kissed so thoroughly that I’m sure my lips are beautifully bruised, he ends it, but he loops a hand around the back of my neck before letting go of me.
“Want a drink, Chloe? This one’s on me.”
I do, but I also don’t want to stop for anything. “Or,” I begin, with a bob of my shoulder, “do you want to do something ridiculous?”
