Page 169 of How to Win the Girl

Drive her a little crazy.

“I had a good time tonight,” she finally says after a few minutes of letting me play with her backside. “Thank you for dinner. It was real romantic.”

She thought it was romantic getting face fucked in the bathroom Cool.

“I’m glad you thought so. And you’re welcome.” For the orgasm and for the food.

“What should we do on our next date?”

“Whatever your little heart desires.”

I mean that shit, too, from the bottom of my black heart. I think I’m gonna like spoiling her—I have no idea how that works or how to spoil someone, but I can probably figure it out.

How hard can it be to have a girlfriend?

All you have to do is give her food, give her attention, have sex with her when she wants to have sex, talk to her. If my idiot brothers can manage to keep their girlfriends happy, so can I. And I’m way smarter than they are so I got this in the bag.

“It’s that easy, huh?”

“Yup.”

Daisy tilts her head at me. Climbing on the bed, she hovers above me with her braid falling over one shoulder, the ends of it tickling me in the face.

She leans down, kissing me full on the mouth.

My hands go to her ass—like it’s a pull from a magnet. My hands, her ass—I cannot keep them off her.

She wants to be in charge now, I can see it in her eyes. I wouldn’t let her suck my dick at the restaurant, but if she wanted to now, I wouldn’t object. I’d be a fucking moron if I did that, and the last time I checked, I wasn’t a fucking moron.

My hands caress her thighs under the skirt of her dress as she kneels above me, sitting on my pelvis, looking down at me as if deciding what she wants to do with me.

“Whatever your heart desires,” I whisper, sounding like a cheese ball but not really caring. No one can hear me but her, and judging by the starry-eyed look in her eyes, that was the right thing to say.

“Take off your shirt,” she commands.

I rise up, raising myself up to a half sit—Daisy still sitting on top, using my core—and pull the dress shirt off, over my head. Throw it to the ground.

“Mmm,” she hums in her throat, palms grazing my chest, starting at my pecs. Fingers graze my nipples, both of them at once, plucking gently. “I’ve never actually rubbed my hands all over a chest like this before.”

“You poor thing.”

“You’re so cocky.”

“Do you think so?”

Her head shakes. “Yes, but it’s not unbearable.”

She resumes her appraisal, learning me with her hands. Up to my shoulders, then down again, skimming down my sternum. Stomach. She has to shift her weight to play with my belly button—an innie—her sighs and mews of pleasure match my breathing.

Obviously, my dick is hard.

Of course it is.

It was hard the second she stepped between my legs and told me she loved it when I said ma’am, which I don’t even do on purpose. It’s a Southern thing, but hey—whatever floats her boat.

I close my eyes.

Fold my arms behind my head, clasping my hands.

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