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She runs her hands up my chest, my body already responding to the way she touches me. Yeah, I’ve had women fawn and grope all over me before, but there’s something different in the way her hands feel. It’s as if my body is recognizing the person who was made to touch it.
NO.
Stop right there, brain.
You’re getting way out of line here. Yes, her touch feels different, but that’s probably because I haven’t gone this long without sex in my entire life. Well, not since college. As soon as I figured out how many women are willing to fuck for fun, I haven’t exactly had a shortage of bedmates.
And now I just feel like the biggest pile of shit ever.
“You okay?” she asks, pulling back and gazing up at me with big, trusting eyes.
Clearing my throat, I reply, “Yeah. You ready?”
She nods and takes my hand. My heart starts to pound at the small gesture, and I can’t even begin to understand why. I haven’t even slept with this woman yet, and she has me tied in knots. That’s a sign that I should leave. I should get back on my boat and sail into the fucking sunset.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
Yeah, I might be confused about these pesky feelings that keep trying to push to the surface, but I’m not confused about one thing: sex. She asked for a no-strings relationship, and if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s that. I can give her exactly what she wants, and at the end of our time, walk away with a smile on my face.
And plenty of memories burned into my mind that I’ll never forget.
She doesn’t lock her house, something I’ve noticed she rarely does, as we head out. My truck is still parked in the driveway, right next to her small car. I help her up in the cab – like all good gentlemen do – never once copping a feel. Okay, lie. I totally brush my hand over her delicious ass as she climbs up. The knowing look on her face tells me she felt it, and the naughty grin lets me know it didn’t bother her one bit.
It doesn’t take long to arrive at the place her brother recommended. It’s a small restaurant with well-worn tables and chairs, and a comfortable atmosphere. There are plenty of open tables, probably in light of the fact that today’s Memorial Day. “Have a seat anywhere,” the bartender says from behind the bar, a handful of patrons parked on stools.
“Over here,” Marissa says, heading away from the few tables with diners and toward the dark booth in the back.
A waitress comes from the kitchen area, bringing us menus and glasses of water. “Oh, hey, Marissa. How are you?” the tall brunette says, setting down our glasses.
“Good, Felicity. How are things with you? When did you move back to town?” Marissa says, her smile just a tad tight as she gives the waitress her attention.
“Oh, everything’s good. I just got back a few weeks ago. I heard your sister opened up a shop down the street?” the waitress coos to Marissa.
“She did,” Marissa confirms, glancing down at her menu and not elaborating further.
“I’ll have to stop in. I haven’t seen her in forever,” Felicity says, drawing out the last word and flipping her long hair over her shoulder.
“I’m sure she’d be delighted.” Only I can tell Marissa doesn’t think her sister would be all that happy to see Felicity drop by for a visit.
“Are you ready to order?” I ask Marissa, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.
She orders a steak and fries, while I choose the steak and baked potato. We both order a beer, and while our waitress goes off to grab our drinks and salad bar plates, I reach for her hand and rub the tender skin over her knuckles. “So what was with Felicity?”
Marissa rolls her eyes. “She hated my sister in school. They competed for everything. Head cheerleader, class president, the quarterback, everything.”
“So her asking about Harper and wanting to stop by was bullshit?”
“Probably. She just wants to be nosy and see what Harp has been up to,” Marissa says quickly as Felicity returns with our beers.
“Here ya go. And if you need anything, just let me know,” Felicity says with a big smile, winking at me before she turns to leave.
I ignore her parting comment and return my eyes to my date. “So? Who won?”
Marissa sets her bottle down on the table and gives me a questioning look. “Who won what?”
“Head cheerleader, class president, and the quarterback.”
