Page 69 of Sleepover

Happy. He’s happy.

I’m happy.

I’m trying not to think too much about what he said earlier. That I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. That he wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t meant it.

But beautiful is just that. Just a surface thing. It doesn’t signify—

I grasp at the easiest way to get my mind back to the moment. “Favorite sexual fantasy.”

“Hmm.” His eyes are sleepy, like they were at that first night in the bar. Heavy-lidded. “Used to be fucking someone against a brick wall outside a bar…”

The pleasure he’s been coaxing to life in me spreads, like a good alcohol buzz, to my lips and to the folds of my sex, warm and tingly.

“Was that the first time you’d done that?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah. What, you think I do that kind of stuff all the time?”

I don’t know, Sawyer.There’s so much I feel like I don’t know, even after all the getting-to-know-you games. “You said you’d had a lot of sex.”

He winces. “Well, yeah, but most of the time back at someone’s apartment, or at my place if Jonah was with his grandparents. I never felt like it was so urgent it had to happen right that instant, like with you.”

That sings through my veins like a strong drink. I guess until that moment I hadn’t been sure whether that night was out of the ordinary for him.

The waitress sets the molten chocolate cake down and lays a spoon in front of each of us. A generous scoop of vanilla ice cream is already beginning to melt over the dark surface of the soft cake. My mouth waters.

“Be nice,” the waitress teases as she backs away. “I’ve seen fistfights break out over the last bite of this stuff.”

The cake really is that good. “Oh, God,” I say, licking soft, warm chocolate off my spoon, the contrast between hot cake and cold ice cream lighting up my tongue.

Sawyer watches me hungrily, and it’s not the cake he’s got designs on. “It’s not going to be a fistfight that breaks out here. I’m going to spread you out on the table and lick this dessert off you. Or, better yet, I’m going to make you lick it off me.”

I squirm, pressing my thighs together. He’s making me so wet. “Gladly.”

“What about you? Favorite sexual fantasy?”

“Besides having someone lick molten chocolate cake off me in public?” I tease in a whisper.

“Mmm-hmm.” His hum is rough enough to rasp like sandpaper over my nipples and clit.

I tilt my head. “Sex in your truck.”

“In my truck.”

“Well, in a truck.”

“Have you ever dated anyone else who owned a truck?”

“No, but the fantasy predates you.”

“So I’m your fantasy guy come to life.” He smirks.

“Yup.”

We both reach for the last bite of chocolate cake, our spoons jangling. We joust for a moment, then he stands down.

“I’d rather watch you eat it, anyway,” he says, and does, his eyes darkening as I caress the spoon with lips and tongue.

Under the table, his foot presses against mine. It’s just shoe leather on shoe leather, but it might as well be bare skin on skin, that’s how deep the sensation travels in my body.

“Where would the truck be parked while we had sex in it?” he asks.

“Someplace dark and quiet. But not a garage, not a driveway. Someplace we could get caught.”

His pupils are so big and dark his irises are just a thin ring around them. He shifts in his seat, and I feel a thrill of triumph, knowing he wants desperately to adjust himself and can’t.

Instead, he raises his eyes to catch the waitress’s, and I giggle at the urgency in his voice as he asks for the check. He gives me a stern look, but I can’t help it; I giggle again.

---