Just My Type(33)

Whoever invented a flannel shirt-turned short, sexy dress should be our next president. Or at the very least, sitting on the Supreme Court. Ember is short as fuck, but with the boot heels she’s wearing, her bare legs look long as hell. Not to mention, they bring her face up closer to mine. They bring her mouth up closer to mine. A mouth that is smudged with some kind of red stain. Red, full lips I can’t stop thinking about wrapped around my dick the same way they were just wrapped around that beer bottle.

But, you know, much wider. Because I’m bigger than a fucking beer bottle, thank you very much.

Our hands are still holding the handle of the hatchet between us, and since I’m staring at her lips, I can clearly see her mouth the word goddammit.

In the blink of an eye, whatever she’d been thinking while we stood there, holding onto the hatchet handle without moving, is gone. Ember yanks the hatchet out of my hand and spins away from me, stepping over to the chalk line on the floor.

“You do realize that by bringing me here, you took your mediocre status and flushed it down the toilet, right? What’s a word for below mediocre?” Ember asks, bringing her right arm up by her ear and then flinging it forward, letting the hatchet fly.

You know how when you go through the pictures on your phone and click on a hundred of them to delete, the screen kind of flashes rapidly as they all get erased? That’s exactly what happens when I watch Ember throw that goddamn hatchet, and it thwacks right into the center of the bull’s-eye. Every spank bank image that has been stored in my head since I was fifteen years old and saw Jamie Bergman’s January issue of Playboy flash out of existence right in front of my eyes. They’ve all been replaced with Ember throwing a fucking baby axe like it’s her goddamn job, with her round little ass jutting out as she bent forward, the hem of her dress riding higher up her thighs, and the satisfied look on her face when she whirls around and fucking struts toward me.

By sheer force of will, my dick doesn’t try and claw its way out of my jeans and launch itself at Ember when she stops right in front of me.

“I do believe the word I’m looking for… is loser,” she informs me with a smirk.

“Fine, so I’m not the best hatchet thrower in the world. Aside from the zombie apocalypse, I don’t know when I would ever utilize this skill anyway,” I complain as Ember laughs and turns around to go to the end of the cage to retrieve the hatchet.

“So you didn’t mean to throw the hatchet against the wall, like a hotdog smacking into the board and then flopping to the ground?”

She continues to laugh as she yanks the hatchet out of the middle of the bull’s-eye, and brings it back to me.

“That was one time, and I told you, it slipped,” I mutter, taking the weapon out of her hand.

“Do you want me to edit this part out of the transcript, or would you like the public to have solid proof that you are, in fact, a loser?” Ember asks sweetly, pointing to her phone sitting right next to where my elbow rests on the tall wooden table next to me.

Ember hit Record on her phone and set it down next to our beers as soon as we got here. Picking it up, I bring it to my mouth and speak into it while looking right at her.

“You’ve been editing out the proof that you’re out-of-your-mind attracted to me, so it’s only fair. Like right now. You’re staring at my mouth. Probably imagining what it would feel like on your skin.”

Setting the phone back down gently next to our drinks, I start to walk around her, pausing long enough to lean my head down next to her ear.

“It would feel fucking amazing, Tink. I’m pretty good with my mouth—just saying.”

Leaving her standing there with a blush spreading across her cheeks, and her chest heaving with every breath she takes, I continue walking around her with a smile on my face, moving up to the chalk line. Bringing my arm up by the side of my head, I take aim.

“Stop!” Ember suddenly shouts, her small hand wrapping around my bicep. “I cannot continue to let you fling this thing like a limp hotdog. But you need to start talking before I impart my wisdom.”

Bringing my arm back down to my side, I look over my shoulder at her. For two-point-three seconds, I actually thought she was finally giving in and wanted to take me up on the “my mouth on your skin” suggestion. Sadly, the flush is gone from her face and she’s breathing normally again.

“Fine. Tell me why you always smell like dessert.”

She blinks at me in confusion a few times before dropping her hand from my arm. “I mean, you need to start talking about yourself,” she reminds me with a cute little huff.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little shy. I need to work my way up to talking about myself.”

Ember snorts at me and rolls her eyes. “You don’t have a shy bone in your body; nice try. And I smell like dessert, because we sell pumpkin pie lotion and body spray at the farm. I actually acquired the contract with the local woman who runs her business out of her house a few towns over. She makes us lotions, candles, and body sprays, and I coordinate scents depending on the time of year. Well, I used to. But pumpkin has always been my favorite. Especially now that I’m living here. It reminds me of home.”

I don’t like the faraway, sad look that takes over her face when she talks about home. It’s like someone sucker-punched me in the gut, so I quickly think of something to erase all that misery from her face.