The Lineup(82)

“You’re spending the night?”

“Yup. I’m going to go upstairs to your place, brush my teeth, and then stick my tongue down your throat. Pizza for dinner?”

“Uh,” I laugh, “sure.”

He fist-pumps. “Pizza and making out. Best night ever.”

I could think of other reasons why it’s turning out to be not only the best night ever, but the best day ever, and they all start with the energetic man next to me.





Chapter Twenty-Three





JASON





Pizza and making out, wow, what a great night, right?

Wrong.

I was so wrong.

When we got to Dottie’s apartment, she gave me a quick tour, let me set my bag down in her bedroom, and then she ordered some pizza while I brushed my teeth. I’ve avoided kissing her ever since I became acquainted with my new friend, trash can number 34298. I know this because this was the number I read over and over again when my head was stuffed inside.

I planned on making up for lost kissing time. Which is what we did while waiting for the pizza.

It started off casual, you know what I’m talking about. An innocent touch here, a purposeful caress there. She scooted onto my lap, sitting sideways, and we made out. It was sweet and innocent, nothing that spoke SEX SEX SEX in bright neon letters. And we kept our hands out of the private zones. It was perfect.

Pizza arrived. We ate. We talked. We laughed. It was a great dinner and then we decided on a movie to watch. She wanted action, I wanted romance—naturally—so we settled on True Lies, which is a little of both. Before the movie started, we both decided to change into our jam-jams and that was the turning point of our night.

I came out in a respectable pair of flannel pants and a plain white T-shirt. Yes, the shirt is purposefully tight just as a subtle reminder of what I have to offer.

Guess who didn’t get the subtle memo? Our resident hottie . . . Dottie.

She strutted into the living room wearing another one of those godforsaken nightgowns—not that I’m really complaining, but I kind of am, because how the hell am I supposed to pay attention to the intricate plot of True Lies with Boobsy McGee sitting next to me with no bra on, acting as if everything is just casual, like I don’t want to stick my penis in her cleavage?

Because I do. I want to dipstick her tits so bad it’s all my mind can think about—dip, dip, dip, DIP—I can’t think of anything else other than whipping my proud penis out of its confines and testing out the warmth of her boobs.

Oh, and don’t you even think for a second that she chose her nighttime wear without thought. There was a lot of thought put into her choice. There was malicious thought, because I’m going to let you in on a little secret. When we were making out, I told her I didn’t want to take it any further tonight than just kissing and I saw it, the look of disappointment cross her face right before it turned to calculating.

She avoided getting handsy and only using her mouth before pizza arrived but now that it’s movie time, she threw down the gauntlet with that little number she’s wearing.

Hell, I’m pretty sure I can see the outline of her nipples.

But what she didn’t take into account is, even though I’m suffering inside, I have more willpower than it might seem. She might be taunting me with her spaghetti strap, silky nightgown that hits just above her thighs, but guess what, lady? I’ve had to pee on my hands many times to make them tough for catching, and letting pee sit on your hands for an obscene amount of time takes more willpower than one can imagine. And side note: peeing on your hands is an old catcher’s trick; it’s disgusting, but it works to toughen up the hands.

Despite currently living in a fiery hell of denying myself sweet release, I’m outwardly as casual as one can get. Hand draped over this girl’s leg, one arm spanning along the back of the couch, slightly slouched, but still able to have a good view of the television. I’m acting like I’m watching the movie, perfectly content with where I am, but from the corner of my eye, I’m watching Dottie like a hawk. The small shifts that make her boobs pop, the tiny touches that graze my inner thigh . . . every move is full of intent.

She wants me.

But it’s not going to happen. I’m holding strong. I will court this woman the right way, damn it.

“Love this scene,” I say, my voice sounding surprisingly normal despite how tense and tight my balls feel right now.

“Jamie Lee Curtis was made for this movie. She does such a good job.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Dottie shifts on the couch and leans into my body, her legs tucked under her, curling in the opposite direction than me. Her hand falls to my chest and her head rests on my shoulder. “That’s better. More comfortable.”

Yeah, maybe for you.

But I take advantage of the position and drape my arm over her, drawing lazy circles on her exposed clavicle.

“Do you think you could ever be in the secret service?” she asks, her finger casually working its way up and down my chest.

“No. I’m too much of a pussy,” I answer honestly, hoping it deters her in her pursuit to touch me.

It doesn’t.

“I could see you doing it. You’re a protector.”

“Yeah, when I’m put in a position I need to be. I will defend anyone in my life to the day I die, but that doesn’t mean I want that as a job.”