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“Well, I think I can make that happen. Later,” I say as we reach the door to Camp Whiskey. “For now, shall we find a booth and talk some more?”
“Yes. Talk,” she purrs, having fun with the word, as if she knows that it’s just another word for foreplay.
With her? It absolutely is.
First, I pop into the lav to wash up. It would be rude to touch her after I’ve had my hands on all those cubes and Scrabble tiles, and since I fully intend to have my hands on her, I do the gentlemanly thing.
I return to the booth, sliding in next to her beneath wooden cutouts of bears rowing boats and lolling in tree branches. Camp Whiskey has a rustic lodge invaded by kitsch vibe I enjoy and an unparalleled selection of whiskey and scotch. Even the speakeasy in the Village where I occasionally spend a lazy Sunday afternoon playing cards with Graham can’t compare.
“This is my favorite part of Brooklyn,” Gigi declares, smoothing her dress. “All the space. I can’t get away with a crinoline in Manhattan.”
I cast a glance at the flouncy skirt currently occupying its own zip code between us.
She reaches for the fabric, folding it over her leg on one side. “Or…maybe not?”
I slide my hand down her arm, enjoying the way she leans into my touch. “What do you take me for? A man who doesn’t know what he wants?”
“What do you mean?” Her question is a little breathy, a little distracted.
From my fingers trailing down her bare skin.
Good.
“I asked you out for a drink. Of course, I want to sit right next to you. Not at a respectable, giant-skirt distance.”
She dips her head, looking the tiniest bit shy, then raises her eyes, nibbling on the corner of her lip. “I like a man who knows his mind.”
“You’ve found one.”
The waitress arrives and takes our drink order, and as soon as she leaves, I return my focus to Gigi. My fingers travel up her shoulder, over her neck, under her hair.
“Mmm,” she murmurs.
Gently, I play with her hair. “What else do you love about Brooklyn?”
She takes a beat, arching into my touch—she really might be part feline. “Oh, so many things. The architecture and the artsy vibe and how close we are to the shore for swimming in the summer. Coney Island, even though it’s tacky. And all the different kinds of people and food and music venues and shopping. We have the most eclectic and exciting shops in the world, I think. Though, I haven’t been many other places.”
“Where else can you find a pickle shop next to a purveyor of handmade pork pie hats.”
Her eyes light up. “Yes! Exactly.”
I let my gaze roam down to her eclectic, exciting dress. “And you look like you fit right in here.”
“Thanks. But that makes sense—I’ve been here my whole life.”
My brows lift. “Really? That’s rare, isn’t it? I haven’t met many Brooklyn natives.”
“A rare breed, spotted in the wild,” she says as the waitress returns with our bourbon and ciders. No whipped cream—alas, they were out—but I’m still looking forward to tasting cinnamon and clove on Gigi’s lips later.
But hopefully not too much later.
Anticipation is all part of the fun, but the more time I spend with this woman, the more I want to see more of her. All of her.
I lift my glass to toast, and she raises hers.
“What shall we toast to?” I ask, hoping she’ll pick something wicked. Or at least wanton.
“Gentlemen’s choice,” she counters, ever the worthy opponent.
Fine by me. I know exactly what I want. “Let’s drink to the best kind of games.”
“And those are?”
I lean close, brush a soft curl of her hair off her shoulder, then press a kiss to the column of her throat. “Bedroom games, of course.”
She trembles, her next breath releasing in a soft whoosh.
“I think I like those kinds of games,” she says as I pull back, and we clink glasses.
“Think? Or know?”
She takes a sip of her cider, moaning soft appreciation for the spicy, fragrant concoction. “I think it depends on the player, don’t you?” she asks in a whisper that sends darts of heat down my spine.
Her voice. Her boldness. Mixed with that faint touch of submission. I don’t go looking for submission. But I’m a firm believer in listening to a woman, then giving her what she wants. And if she wants me to lead, then I’ll do just that.
But a man should always ask. “I have one more thing I’d like to toast to.”
“Multiple toasts,” she says musing on the first word. “That sounds promising.”
“I always deliver on my promises,” I knock back some bourbon, savoring the cider and the burn.
“Let’s find out.” She tilts her chin just so, offering those gorgeous lips and I take the gift of her mouth.
