Just My Type(50)

I whimper loudly into his mouth, each torturous drag of his tongue against mine matching the current slow drag of his jean-covered hard-on between my thighs.

I think about every first kiss I’ve ever had with a man, and none of them even come close to comparing to this. Probably because I’ve been wanting it for weeks and weeks, and the build-up makes it that much better. Or maybe it’s just Baker. With the way his mouth claims mine with every deep plunge of his tongue, like he’s kissed me a thousand times before and knows exactly what to do to drive me crazy, and the way his hips just lazily slide between my legs, the friction only making me hotter and wetter instead of putting out the fire he started the first time I heard his voice.

I’m claiming him right back with this kiss, thrusting my hips up to meet him, wrapping my arms fully around his shoulders so I can bring him closer, even though our bodies are so tightly pressed together from our mouths to our groins that air can’t even penetrate.

Our heads change directions, and we’re kissing and kissing, and dry humping like mad against the door in his small bathroom, with a birthday party happening on the other side, and I’m so close to having a screaming, earth-shattering orgasm as Baker jerks his hips a little rougher between my thighs, hitting just the right spot until I let out a loud moan around his tongue, that I don’t even give a shit.

This motherfucker can burn to the ground, as long as I come first.

I hear nothing but white noise in my head and the loud, thumping of my heart as Baker’s hardness in those jeans, and his powerful hips, and the way he sucks my tongue into his mouth, and the sounds of the groans of pleasure he makes whenever I rock my hips against him, all push me closer and closer to the edge of one amazing release that is a long fucking time coming. Pun intended.

“Hello! Can you let me in? I need to go poop!”

All of a sudden, I realize the loud pounding I heard wasn’t my heart, but a child. On the other side of the door that I am currently pressed against, seconds away from combusting.

Baker suddenly pulls his mouth away from mine, and I am most certainly going to hell, because I let out a whimper of protest when I lose the heat of his lips on mine.

“Hey, Anderson!” Baker shouts through the door happily, like he wasn’t just seconds away from making me combust with that weapon he’s packing in his pants, and that masterful tongue he’s been verbally teasing me with for weeks. “There’s another bathroom over in my bedroom. Go ask Miss Blake where it is.”

My legs are still tightly wrapped around Baker’s hips, my arms are still draped over his shoulders, and our chests that are still pressed together move quickly up and down as we both try to catch our breaths.

When we hear the pounding of footsteps moving away from the other side of the door, Baker chuckles as he pulls his head back slightly to look at me.

He’s definitely not a sucky kisser. And goddammit, fine. Maybe we are dating. Baker looks at me expectantly with a little smirk on his smug face, and I know he’s just waiting for me to confirm these facts. So, I open my mouth and give him exactly what he’s been saying he likes. The real me.

“You motherfucker,” I mutter, shaking my head at him.





CHAPTER 20





Ember

Let Him Carry Your Fucking Baggage


My doorbell rings, and I jump at the sound. My cell phone clamors to the coffee table when it slips from my grasp, where I’d been staring at the text Baker sent me this morning.

Baker: We’re going out tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.

We’ve been texting back and forth since I left his loft Wednesday night after the party, but never about anything important, like say, the fact that he almost made me have an orgasm in his bathroom during a child’s birthday party. Which is fine. It’s not like we had time to have any kind of discussion about whether or not we really are dating after the almost-orgasm, because… child’s birthday party. There were presents to open, and songs to sing, and games to play. Games where Baker put a blindfold on me, and Baker spun me around with his hands on my hips, and Baker whispered something in my ear about how he wanted to pin something to my ass, and I was so distracted and turned on that I pinned my donkey’s tail on a bookshelf twenty-five feet away from the goddamn donkey poster. He has a big place, and it could have happened to anyone. Whatever.

This text, it feels important. He doesn’t mention an interview at all. He’s completely removing work from this equation. It’s not his normal, “Here’s where we’ll meet for our next interview.” He’s just full-on telling me we’re going out.

This is it. This is a date. And a real one this time, not one I didn’t know about. I know all about it. I know there are expectations now, and I know there are nerves now, and I know I’ve spent the last few weeks being more comfortable with Baker than I’ve been with anyone else in my life before, and what if it’s different now? What if it all goes to shit as soon as it’s official? I don’t want awkward conversation, and nervous apologies when we both reach for the breadbasket at the same time.

And what if he’s taking me to dinner for this first official date, and he doesn’t even realize the importance of a free, fresh-from-the-oven breadbasket? Flipping a table on a first official date doesn’t sound like a surefire way to get a second official date.