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“I really love cars. I swear, growing up, it was alwaysoh, Ford like the car?and it just seemed like me and cars always went together. I knew how to rebuild a motor at fifteen. Doing oil checks. Changing flats. For my sixteenth birthday, my parents bought me this old VW Bug, and Dad helped me restore it. Taking that thing from a rusted scrap heap to something shiny and roadworthy lit a fire under my ass. There’s only ever been one job for me.” I watch him, trying my hardest to ignore his bare chest. “What about you? Why flowers? Because you didn’t do that when you were here the first time, right?”
“Nope. And, well, they’re …important.”
“Go on.”
“Unlike you, I didn’t have that one thing. All I knew was that I needed to go to college and get a job that would support my family. I did that. I married the girl. I bought a place. We were planning kids, and then …” He doesn’t need to finish. “I lived my life exactly by the book, and the whole thing was slammed on me. So, screw it. I wanted to try something I never, ever considered for myself, and I landed on opening a flower shop. And Iloveit. Flowers are there when you’re born, they’re there for anniversaries and milestones, and they’re there again when you die. I like the idea of being a very, very small part of that.”
“That’s a lot deeper than flowers are pretty and they smell good.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and there’s that too.”
“You’re … not like I thought you’d be.”
“You know what? You aren’t either.”
I tilt my head. “What did you think I’d be like?”
“Not even really sure. But whatever it was”—he waves a hand over me—“this isn’t it.”
“Right back at you, sweetheart.”
I know exactly what he means too. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting from Orson. Someone quiet? Shy? Hurting? But while he’s not boisterous like me, he keeps me on my toes and is the furthest thing from the shy and bumbling guy I’d met when his ass was covered in mud. Which is good. Because fuck do I like this guy.
“So …” He shifts his body toward me, letting his legs fall open in a way that immediately catches my interest. “I think I still owe you.”
“Owe me for what?”
“Don’t you remember our first date?” He runs his thumb from the center of his chest all the way down to the rolled-up band of my sweat. “I lost the game we were playing, and you named your prize.”
My gaze snaps up to his. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
“Try me. Say you want to cash in.”
“And what happens if I do?”
“Then I put all those years of training to good use.”
“Technically, we never agreed there’d be a prize …” I’m not even sure why I’m arguing the point here because Orson is literally offering me a lap dance, and if I thought he was actually serious, he’d be in my lap already.
His eyes are bright as he leans forward and rests a hand on my knee. “I’mverygood at them.”
“You’ve also said many times that it was a chore to do it for the men who paid you.”
“But you’re not paying me.” He picks up his phone, thumbs through for a moment, and then Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” starts to play. He sets the phone on the table, presses both hands to my knees, and leans forward so his face is an inch from mine. “Should we see if giving you your reward feels like a chore?”
I swallow thickly, sure I should say no but not able to make the word form. Because … I think heisserious. “More than happy to be your test subject.”
The smile Orson gives me is wicked as he slowly parts my knees and sinks down between them. He hovers there for a second, on his heels, knees spread like mine, dick imprint against my sweats as he looks up and locks eyes with me. Then he rolls his hips as he stands, and it’s that moment when I realize I’m a goner.
Orson candance. His body is loose, fluid, hitting every beat. And between those sexy-as-fuck hip rolls and booty shakes, he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He pulls faces and winks, throws in some lassos and dabs, a few finger guns, and he has me smiling like a goddamn fool. Drinking in his impressive body. Holding back from touching.
What Magic Mike shit is this?
Orson dances a step closer. And closer again. Some of the humor has left his expression, eyes darker, locking with mine, holding. His lips part as he reaches up to run his hands slowly through his hair, flexing his biceps, knees bumping with mine.
My grin is long gone as I swallow past the gargantuan lump in my throat.
Then the chorus kicks in at the exact moment Orson grips the back of my chair, jumps his feet out to straddle my thighs, and rolls his body. Over and over again to the music, close but not touching. Scent filling my nostrils, abs clenching, sweats sitting low and showing off the dip of his V and a hint of his pubes.
