Page 7 of Loose End

Her eyebrows rise, her plump little lips forming an “oh” of surprise. Join the club, princess. I’m surprised myself. Fuck. I really need to reign this shit back in. She’s either taken or on Facebook asit’s complicatedand I don’t do complicated.

There’s no noticeable ring on her ringer, I can’t—and won’t—assume there’s nobody waiting for her at home. Marriage vows are to important to break for an empty fuck and I refuse to help someone cheat.

“That depends.” She straightens and stirs the straw around in her glass, clinking the ice together. “Actually, it doesn’t matter.” She huffs a laugh, but it’s hollow. Empty. “In my experience, I’ve found men to be selfish and lack the ability to bring women to orgasm. The odds are stacked against you. Sorry. You might want to look somewhere else.”

I should look literally anywhere else.

But dammit. Beautiful and snarky.

It’s not every day a woman intrigues me and even rarer that one keeps me on my toes. I need to find out her story and if she’s single, I’ll push her a little, because she piques my interest which is something that doesn’t happen often.

And did she say men can’t give her orgasms?

Because Jesus H Christ. That means she’s not been properly taken care of and a woman like her has needs. And dirty fantasies that need to be explored.

Trust me, she has dirty fantasies. I know it, and she knows it. The fact that she’s staring at me with wide eyes and hasn’t slapped me yet is all the proof I need. Not to mention the shadow of intrigue behind those big brown eyes of hers.

“If I give you an invitation to sit on my face, the question won’t be if I can bring you to orgasm, Princess. It’ll be how many times.”

THREE

June

Holy fudge factory,I should slap this guy. The audacity. The arrogance. The irresistible dimples on either side of his mouth.

With one very devious smirk, resulting in the aforementioned dimples, I’ve lost all train of thought and all I can do is stare straight at this giant of a man. I mean, come on. It isn’t fair to dangle this broad-shouldered dress shirt wearing hunk—who clearly works out for a living—right under my nose less than an hour after I caught my fiancé giving his best friend a blowie.

This has to be some sort of twilight zone I’ve stepped into. Guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me. He’s probably just being nice.

Wait…did he say how many orgasms?

As in more than one?

As in he’s willing to eat me for dinner until I come all over his face multiple times?

And he’s not worried about suffocating? Letting a woman down? That he’s notupto the task?

This man is either so full of crap he could fertilizethe entire football field they just showed on TV, or he’s a magician who needs to be trapped in a cage and studied meticulously.

Orgasms?

I’m sorry I keep going back to that, but I’m half convinced I misheard him. Maybe I’m dreaming. Yeah. That’s it. I’m still in the church and I fell asleep before walking down the aisle. Paul is still getting ready and most definitely does not have a dick in his mouth and I’m not sitting in a bar in my wedding dress staring at this gorgeous muscled man like he’s the savior.

He could be my savior.

No. Bad June.

Ugh. I’m definitely not dreaming. Even I wouldn’t scold myself in my sleep.

“What’s the matter?” Muscles nudges me with his elbow. “You afraid of being devoured by the big bad wolf, Princess?”

Again with the princess. I should hate it. I should not engage. I absolutely shouldn’t be letting that word caress down my spine and make me tingle in places I didn’t know existed.

“I…” I trail off at the mischievous glint in his pale blue eyes.I’d love to have something intelligent to say, but I've got nothing. I’m a woman sitting at a bar in a wedding dress for Christ’s sake. I do not have it together.

And I really can’t tell. Is he flirting?

With me?

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