Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Why would we need two?”
Against my own volition, I peer up into his glowing gaze.
“Sharing with you is wonderful,” Thayne warmly states while dipping the spoon in the ice cream mixture, “but sharing you is unacceptable.” He slides one hand under the other to capture any possible drops during his delivery to my parted lips. “Same line?”
“Same line,” is practically whispered prior to my mouth closing around the offering.
Faint whimpers escape us both for what I’m guessing to be the exact same reason.
Most free agent players – regardless of their sport – happily bag and bang every jersey chaser from Texas to New Zealand with no gameplan on settling down until a broken condom threatens to have them signing the one type of contract, they didn’t see themselves ever signing.
M was an exception.
He met Marigold his freshman year in high school.
Says he just knew she was the one.
That he didn’t need to swing his stick on a bunch of random ice to know it.
He trusted his instinct.
He’s always trusted his instinct.
Encouraged me to trust mine too.
Deep rooted problem of course being I thought mine was permanently mute.
But now?
I’m starting to wonder if perhaps I simply muted it.
Perhaps it’s time to let it have a voice again.
Starting by believing the man across from me truly is meant for me in spite of the sticky situation.
“Thoughts?” Thayne practically purrs as he slowly slides the utensil out of my mouth.
“On?”
“The dessert? The tuneskies?” He lowers it to the other treat on our table. “Me?”
“Incredible. Incredible. And soooooo fucking incredible,” saucily springs free getting his cheeks to finally shift to a shade of red. “No notes.”
Light chuckles shake his frame making it slightly harder for him to cut into the semifreddo.
“Can you sing?” is attached to me propping my elbows on the table to allow my face to girlishly fall into my open palm. “I already know you can dance.”
“Can I sing?” my date echoes in almost a cringing fashion. “We talkin’ like can my mouth move and make the right sounds? Or we talkin’ like can my mouth move and make noises other people can tolerate most days?”
“Both.” Giggles effortlessly float through the air. “Either.”
“Sure,” warmly laughs the person I can easily see myself spending the rest of my life with. “Jus’ don’t ask me to audition for Disney on Ice.”
“Not even if The Muses are performing?”
“Only if The Muses are performin’,” he chortles as I indulge in a bite of the next dessert.
Decadent flavors savagely serenade my tastebuds to the point I don’t even wait to be asked for my opinion to state it, “I like this one more.”
“Why?” His attention remains completely focused on me. My every word. “Is it ‘cause you prefer mousse to ice cream? One texture over the other? Maybe it’s the flavor of fig balancin’ out some of the strength of espresso?”
“I love the way it melts on my tongue.”
“DearsweetDolly,” airily murmurs my date on a clumsy dropping of the spoon.
Clink noises draw the attention of other tables; however, rather than become embarrassed by the sudden staring, he simply picks up the utensil and belts out a perfectly timed “wooooo” in between the lines of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”. He theatrically lifts his other hand, bobs his head around to the beat, and waits for another perfect opening to add a second, “woooo”.
His wooing sparks crowd clapping and other silverware tinking.
The performers on stage even whimsically request everyone gets on their feet to join them in singing the chorus.
Which we do.
Thayne continues to enthusiastically channel his inner Whitney Houston into the spoon while holding it between us, insisting we share the makeshift microphone.
The spotlight.
The moment.
Still holding onto my clutch allows him to suddenly turn it into a pretend tambourine between our booty bumping to the beat, no cares or concerns or contemplation given to how silly he may look to anyone watching.
His impetuous actions are infectious and exhilarating and so intoxicating that I can’t stop myself from spontaneously grabbing him by the suspenders at the end of the song and panting, “Kiss me like I am that somebody, Jukes.”
Catching my breath is willingly abandoned the instant his mouth crazily captures mine. Both hands relinquish their hold on their respective objects in order to possessively cup my face, to let just the tips of his fingers dig into the edges of my neck, to mark me with his touch to the same unyielding tenacity that his tongue is. Moaning and groaning and pawing and clawing are accompanied by increasingly faster and faster twirls that feel impossible to stop until we’ve successfully tangled our figures into a seemingly inseparable knot of carnality.
Then – and only then – do our lips move to that of a feathering nature.
Once more, my music loving dream come true not only insists that I find my voice, but that I use it. “Tell me what’s next, Gillybean.”