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Amending the Agreement
fiona
I needed to get laid.
Badly.
Between Kip’s mother’s visit, the forced intimacy, the sharing of a bed and a bathroom, and the glimpses of his impressive abs and Adonis belt, I needed to get fucking laid.
My vibrator was not doing it for me.
Especially since now it was Kip I saw when I was coming. And worse, it wasn’t the abs or the Adonis belt I visualized. It was him, dirty, fresh from work, his hair mussed, his hands stained with whatever he’d been working with that day.
I found myself staring at them. His hands. Throughout the day. Even in the morning when I was a zombie and couldn’t comprehend much beyond basic shapes and colors, I was transfixed by his fucking hands pouring himself coffee.
It was bad. I felt like I was a thirteen-year-old boy, thinking about sex every minute of the day.
Not healthy.
Hence me putting on a tight dress, heels and red lipstick, and driving myself to the next town over to the local bar on a Saturday night.
I was going fishing.
It didn’t take long for me to catch one.
He was… okay, I supposed. Nice face, tight tee, white teeth, good hair, and decent muscles. He called me ‘ma’am,’ trying to be cute, but it was vaguely insulting and so damn… American.
Kip was American. Even more American than that. Fuck, wasn’t he GI fucking Joe back in another life?
So, it wasn’t the American thing that bothered me.
Maybe it was the jaw that was square but clean-shaven. Or those teeth. Or the hair that wasn’t mussed and wild.
Yes, he was wrong in a way I couldn’t pinpoint. That I didn’t want to pinpoint.
He wasn’t Kip.
Which, of course, had me flirting extra heavily with him to compensate for my dangerous thoughts.
Another man’s dick inside me should cure me of this weird infatuation.
“Can I have another?” I asked the bartender.
Another man’s dick and another drink.
“Have I told you how much I love your accent?” Trent—Troy?—asked with a grin, leaning forward to place his hand on my bare thigh.
“You have, in fact, told me that,” I informed him. “It’s a really original compliment. And personal too.” I winked at him, and he chuckled, though he looked confused as to whether he should be insulted or not.
“How about I tell you what a good kisser you are? That a little more personal?” he asked, leaning closer now.
I grinned at him, wishing I’d slammed another tequila. “But you don’t know if I’m a good kisser or not,” I purred.
“I will in about five seconds,” he said.
Yep, here it was.
I was going to kiss a guy in a bar.
