A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(46)

I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere. “Abby, if you don’t want it, I can get you something else. I don’t mind.”

“Caleb, it’s fine.” She takes another sip, regarding me above the cup’s ridge with a smiling, impish glint in her eyes. “See? Refreshing.”

My eyes go to her foamy upper lip, which she immediately licks away with a flick of her pink tongue.

God, she is so unbelievably cute.

If this weren’t a first date, I would lean down and plant a kiss on her pretty, foamy lips. Or run my rough palm through the wispy hair at the base of her neck…

True, we’ve already kissed a dozen times, already been in bed together—and to that point, my dick has already humped her pajamas until we both came in our pants like two horny, pubescent teenagers.

Which was totally awesome, by the way.

However, as f*cked up as it sounds, being at this bar still seems far more intimate, probably due to my lack of experience with the actual act of dating. If I were any other dude—like any one of my friends—I would have had that shit with Abby locked down by now.

But I don’t, mostly because I’m awkward, and reserved, and out of practice. I haven’t had a steady girlfriend since eighth grade, when I dated Sarah Michelle Schroeder for seven whole days. I promptly dumped her one week later at the school Halloween dance for trying to kiss me during a slow song. I had to hide out in the bathroom from Sarah’s vengeful friends until my dad came to get me. After that, well, I decided that having a girlfriend was way too stressful, and sticking to hockey and hooking up with the occasional nameless co-ed was the better path to follow.

It’s served me pretty well. Until now.

Now, I wish I knew what the f*ck I was doing. I feel like a douchebag. Twenty-one years old and still awkward as all hell. Besides holding my beer, I hardly know where to put my free hand. Should I touch Abby like Weston is touching Molly? Put my arm around her like Blaze has his arm around Shelby?

Dammit.

I scowl, staring down intently into my cup of beer, like the answer to all my problems could be found floating in the foam.

A large, firm hand clamps down on my shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Showtime, man, do my eyes deceive me, or did you bring a date tonight?” Liam Tielke, a teammate, asks at the same time he refills my cup with the pitcher of beer.

I avoid answering his question by giving him one of my famous non-committed shrugs.

“Come on, man, fess up. Legitimate date or blowjob artist?”

I give Liam a glare when Abby gasps, eyes growing wide and face getting red, but seize the opportunity to wrap my hand around her waist, keeping it occupied—you know, just in case I’m tempted to put it through Liam’s already f*cked-up face. He really can’t afford to lose one more tooth.

Abby clears her throat and gamely replies, “Um. Legitimate d-date.”

Jenna, who is standing nearby, loudly adds, “She’s too pretty to give blow jobs, don’t you think? Everyone knows only ugly girls need to suck -“

“Jenna! Please!” Molly shrieks. “Good Lord, what am I going to do with you?”

Liam holds the pitcher of beer aloft like a prop, gesturing with it. “No, no, she’s right. Ugly girls do need to suck cock more often.” He looks down at Abby from his six-foot-two stature, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “You are a dime piece. I don’t suppose you do anal?”

“Dude, too far.” Cubby gives a low whistle from nearby. “Even I know better than to say shit like that.”

“Know what we should do, Showtime? Change your nickname from Showtime to Preacher, on account of your vow of celibacy.”

This kid has a death wish. I seriously want to punch him.

Lucky for Liam, he has the attention span of a toddler and abruptly turns his back to shout insults at Blaze and the team’s forward, a great guy named Malcolm ‘The Enforcer’ Schwartz.

No matter. I’ll make sure he gets what he has coming to him at practice next week—and it won’t be pretty.

“What is up with that guy?” Jenna asks with a laugh, her long gold earrings dangling down to her shoulders. “What a pig.”

Beside her, Molly snorts. “You little brat! You were encouraging him, so don’t even start.”

“Maybe.” She takes a drink from her beer, shooting me a wink above the brim. “But you have to admit, I do have a point about them BJs.” I feel heat rising up my neck and shift on my heels, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken.

Cubby wraps his arm around Jenna’s waist. “You’re not really celibate, are you, Showtime?”

I give him a rigid stare.

“Enough. Leave him alone before he walks out of here,” Weston interjects.

Cubby has the nerve to look affronted. “It was an innocent question! I really wanted to know!”

“Yeah right, d-bag. Go grab the pitcher from Foreskin over there and get Showtime’s cup filled up.”





Abby

All in all, the night went well—despite the continuous interference from our friends, who just cannot seem to stop themselves from embarrassing us. For example, at one point in the evening, Miles sent out a Tweet that said:

@LoneRangersMadison Stop by and take a #Selfie with #BadgerHockey goalie @CLockhart33 and his #lover @WalkofShame