The Matchmaker's Playbook (Wingmen Inc., #1)(83)

“Cute.” I tugged her ear with my teeth. “Wrong wood, sweetheart.”

Slowly, she inched her hands away from me and placed them on the bar top.

“Bend over.”

She froze, then glared back at me. We’re in public, she mouthed.

“Exactly.” My body heated. No, it freakin’ began to hum with awareness. “Just a little preview, only for me. Nobody else is watching, not with The David Show going on.”

She glanced back, and so did I.

Sure enough, every eye was glued to the catastrophe taking place over on the other side of the room. The girl’s poor armpit was going to have a penis print on it, along with a zipper scrape. Such a sad, sad morning in store for her.

“Fine.” Slowly, Blake leaned over the bar and reached for our shots. The view was beautiful. I saw just the slightest hint of ass cheek, enough to make me want to become an exhibitionist.

“Gorgeous.” I squeezed her ass before I slowly turned her around, took a shot glass, and clinked the glass against hers. “To new beginnings?”

“And happy endings.”

“And so the virgin turns into the slut. My work here is done.”

“Says the whore.”

“Who’s going home with you,” I countered. “Now, shake that ass toward the door. I have some ideas that involve rope and zip ties.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Ian!”

“What?” I said with a shrug. “I was talking about home improvement, you dirty, dirty girl.”

A blush stained her cheeks.

“Now, let’s get out of here before I maul you in the closest bathroom. Gotta keep things classy where you’re concerned.”

“I don’t know . . .” Blake stopped walking. “I could go for the bathroom.”

“Hmm.” I continued leading her out. “Maybe next time . . . But tonight? I want you in a bed . . . I’m not going to confess love, then take you in a bathroom stall, no matter how sexy you look in the dress that I really can’t remember buying for you.”

“It’s Gabi’s.”

“Sometimes I love her.”

“And sometimes, on very rare occasions, she loves you.”

Laughing, I kissed Blake on the head and whispered, “Let’s go home.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Never in my life had a car ride taken so long. It didn’t help that a few streets downtown suddenly decided they needed construction on the way to my house, so the drive that should have taken a few minutes took close to twenty.

“You alright?”

“Nope.” My entire body was tight, aching.

“Ian?”

“Hmm?” I turned to look at Blake. Her hands were folded in her lap, her knit dress was almost indecent as it inched up her thighs. I reached out to grab her hand, but she pulled away. “What’s wrong?”

“I did kiss him back.”

“Shit.” There went our fun night. “Blake, I really, really don’t want to talk about him. It’s done. A moment of weakness—”

“Moment of weakness?” She burst out laughing. “No, more like, I kissed him back to make sure.”

“Make sure?” The construction worker flagged me forward. We were moving at a turtle’s speed over a bridge. I couldn’t look at Blake anymore, but I could sense her apprehension as if it were my own. “Make sure of what?”

“My feelings.”

We were almost at my house. I stole a sidelong glance at her. “Your feelings for David?”

“No.” She swallowed. “My feelings for you.”

“Blake, no offense, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” She threw her hands into the air. “I just . . . I wanted to make sure. You were my first . . . everything, and I just didn’t know, and I was falling too fast.

“And then he leaned in, and I thought, well, at least I’ll know for sure that I love Ian.” She gulped in a huge breath, then finished softly, “Because I do . . . I love you.”

“And yet”—I turned into my driveway and shut off the car—“he kissed you.”

Blake sighed heavily. “I let him kiss me. I didn’t push him away at first because I was so shocked by how horrible it felt, how wrong everything felt. The way he kissed was—”

“Please.” I held up my hand while my stomach tied itself into knots. “Spare me the details.”

“He tasted funny.”

“Did you not hear me when I said spare me the details?” I pulled the keys out of the ignition. “I guess . . . I can maybe understand why you let it happen, but, Blake, that kiss was at least seven seconds. Believe me, I counted.”

“Of absolute torture,” she pointed out. “And when we were finished, he wiped his mouth.”

“Well, shit.” I chuckled. “Lots of spit?”

“Maybe he was a merman in another life, and the only way he can survive on dry land is to keep as much liquid inside his mouth as possible.”

“Believe it or not, this conversation isn’t turning me on, sweet cheeks.”

“Think of me!” Blake threw her hands into the air. “I have to live with that memory.”