Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Blue nods once, then he’s gone—moving through the crowd like a glacier through the ocean: big on top, but even bigger, deeper under the surface.
“Later, meat stick weirdos,” Nix says, snagging his stank drink. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
And then we’re alone. In our cozy corner booth. In the bar where we first kissed. Breathing fast from a heated meat stick battle, with alcohol in our systems, unspoken feelings thick in the air, and the clock well past five.
“Can’t do…what was that again?” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, her hand disappears under the table, and suddenly there’s warmth on my thigh. Just her palm, resting there through my shorts.
Not moving. Just…there.
My brain short-circuits for a second before I mirror her, sliding my hand under the table to find her leg. The denim of her jeans is soft under my palm, worn in all the right places. I squeeze gently, and she squeezes back.
It’s the weirdest, hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
We sit there, staring at each other, not speaking, just…touching. Her fingers start moving, tracing little patterns on my thigh. I respond by dragging my thumb along the inseam of her jeans—slow and deliberate. Her breath catches, and her hand slides higher.
This is insane. We’re in public. In a bar where we’ve already gotten into trouble for making out in public once before, playing a silent, under-the-table game of chicken while Cobb’s husband is literally three feet away, delivering a tray of Platypus Surprises.
But I can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Her fingertips are curling into the muscle of my thigh now, kneading gently, and I’m getting hard. So fucking hard, just from her hand on my leg through a layer of fabric like a Victorian virgin touched for the very first time.
“Next up, Melody Jakes,” the karaoke host’s voice cuts through the air, making us both suck in a breath. But we don’t move our hands or look toward the stage. We only have eyes for each other right now. “She picked out a real treat for y’all tonight. Enjoy and don’t forget to leave your change in the donation boxes by the bar on your way out. We’re drinking for New Orleans tonight, darlins. Let’s show our city how much we care!”
Amidst cheers from the crowd, a woman takes the stage. When she opens her mouth, actual music comes out. This isn’t the usual karaoke massacre. This girl can sing. Her voice is smooth as whiskey, turning Prince’s slightly pervy “When Doves Cry” into something that makes my chest tight.
Makena’s hand slides higher.
My fingers dig into her thigh.
We’re both breathing too fast, eyes locked, as Melody croons about touching trembling stomachs and being left alone in a cold, cruel world, and fuck…
This shouldn’t be so hot—we’re in a dive bar that smells like sour beer and the unfortunate number of Pepé Le Pew Pews they’ve sold tonight—but all I can focus on is the heat in Makena’s eyes and the way her fingers are now dangerously close to where I’m straining against my zipper.
The blood is rushing south so fast I’m getting lightheaded. My cock is practically begging for attention, and her pinky finger is right there, just an inch away from brushing against it. I slide my hand up to her inner thigh, and she parts her legs just slightly, just enough to be an invitation.
Her pupils are blown wide, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and all I want to do is lean in and—
“I have to pee,” she blurts out.
I blink, hand going still mere centimeters from her clit. “Pee?”
She scoots across the vinyl, breath still coming fast. “Yes. Pee. Right now. Immediately. You know I have a very small bladder.”
“I do know that,” I say, weirdly proud of that fact.
After barely a week, I know that she can’t make it more than three hours without needing to find a bathroom, wakes at the crack of dawn no matter how late she goes to bed, and always checks to make sure her dining partner has everything they need for a luxurious meal before attending to her own plate. She loves fresh dill, hates cantaloupe with a passion I reserve for people who slap puppies, and has very strong opinions about free-range chicken.
Namely, that they should always be free range, and that chickens have a God-given right to live wild and happy before they become food.
I know all these things, but I can’t wait to learn more, to memorize this woman like the lyrics of my favorite song.
Which might be “When Doves Cry” now. I can’t believe I never realized how chock full of longing and sex this song was before.
“So yeah, I’m going to do that.” She stands beside our booth for a second, shifting from one foot to the other, looking everywhere but at me. Then suddenly, she adds in a rush, “But if someone were to knock on the door to the family bathroom in like…two minutes, I would let him in.”