Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(72)

“I’m not going to answer that question.” I spat the words at him. The truth: I wasn’t sure. He was the only man I’d ever been with. His dick was smallish. He came quickly, and I’d never had an orgasm with him. He was nothing like the men in those erotic romance novels I’d read. But I knew they were just fiction. Men like Christian Grey and Gideon Cross didn’t exist in real life.

Blake grinned smugly. “You did answer it. But as my dad always says, good is the enemy of better.”

He was having a very uncomfortable effect on me. As I pondered his words, my heart beat rapidly, and I felt flutters rise between my legs.

“Come over here, tiger.” He signaled with his index finger for me to lean into him. With my lips slightly parted, I did as he asked.

“You have some egg on your mouth.”

“Oh.” I flushed with embarrassment. Before I could flick it off, his long forefinger made contact with my face and languidly traced my lips before brushing it off. My flesh tingled all over from his tender touch. My eyes never left him as he sucked the bit of egg off his fingertip. A satisfied smile spread across his face.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have very kissable lips, Ms. McCoy?”

I jolted with shock. A heat stroke was a very real possibility. “No,” I croaked, my voice just above a whisper.

“Well, I’m telling you.”

With that and the check, breakfast with my boss came to an end.





Chapter 12

Blake


After breakfast, I asked Jennifer if she wanted to take a walk on the beach with me. I enjoyed being with her. It was rare for me to have a real conversation with a girl and couldn’t remember the last time I did. But after I told her she had kissable lips, she clammed up and told me she needed to get home.

Fuck. She didn’t even thank me for the compliment, I thought as we cruised along the Santa Monica Freeway in silence. Maybe she didn’t take it that way though the rest of our morning had gone so well. The top of my Porsche was down, and the radio was blasting. From time to time, I stole a glance at her. Her ponytail was whipping against her face, her eyes squinting, as if deep in thought. She kept her gaze straight ahead and occasionally looked out her side of the car. My cock was still twitching from the boner I had under the table. I was inexplicably attracted to her. It had taken all I had not to kiss those kissable lips and let her know I was the man she’d kissed in that game of Truth or Dare. I was now playing my own version of that game. The truth if I was asked: I had a burning urge to pull off the road and ask her to blow me. And if someone dared me, I’d do it.

With no traffic on the freeway, it took a short twenty minutes to get Jennifer’s house. I pulled up to the curb outside a small Spanish cottage. There were two cars parked in the drive away—a Mini Cooper and a Kia. Obviously, she shared it with someone. Her f*cking fiancé? My skin bristled, but then I remembered he was at work. So, someone else.

“Thanks again for breakfast,” she said as she unfastened her seat belt. Her nonchalant tone irked me.

“My pleasure. We should do it again.” And let me savor every part of you.

The corners of those kissable lips curled up. “Maybe.”

Man, I hated that word. I was a man used to hearing yes and who never took no as an answer.

Before I could jump out of my car to help her out, she opened the passenger door and let herself out.

“See you on Monday.” Her voice sounded cheerful but businesslike. She pivoted toward her house. Unbeknownst to her, I kept my eyes on her tight little heart-shaped ass and her thin, toned legs. She had a sexy little bounce to her stride. My dick hardened.

I lowered the volume of the radio. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”


She looked over her shoulder. “What I always do on Saturday nights. I’m seeing my fiancé.”

The f-word. I clenched my fists into hard balls while my dick softened.

By the time she disappeared into the house, I’d totally lost my erection. But the ache in my balls was palpable.

With the Lumineers singing “Ho Hey,” I peeled off the curb with a screech.

Whatever stupid game I was playing, I was losing. Jennifer McCoy did not belong to me.

Five minutes later, I made a sharp U-turn. Blake Burns did not lose at games. It was time to check out the competition. I pulled up to her house, jumped out of my car, and then knocked at her door.

She came to the door quickly. Opening it, she was already freshly showered and sporting a short terrycloth robe. Her damp, shampooed hair hung loose, spilling over her shoulders. Fuck. She smelled delicious—all cherry vanilla—and beneath that robe, I knew she was pure silky flesh. Man, how I wanted to tear that robe right off her and take her in my arms.

“Blake!” She seemed shocked to see me.

I cupped my jaw with my hand and feigned pain.

“Is something wrong?” She sounded concerned.

I nodded with a grimace. Man, I was good. I deserved an Emmy. My modeling/acting days were good for something besides supermodel hook-ups.

“I have a terrible toothache,” I moaned, rubbing my cheek.

“Oh my goodness. Come in. I’ll get you some Advil.”

“Thanks,” I said, stepping inside. “It started at breakfast but just suddenly flared up.”

“You poor thing. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”