I don't know what to say, so I nod.
"It's not like it's personal. It's not like a woman is lacking in some way. I just can't handle more than casual."
"Have you tried?"
"Yeah. Sometimes shit has gone on too long. Started to get serious. Real. I just…" His shoulders clench. "I don't know. I guess it's different now." His gaze shifts to his coffee cup. "I have a lot to figure out. I don't want to put that on anyone."
"Are you rejecting my fake offer?"
He chuckles. "It's a fake offer."
"What if it wasn't?"
"Hypothetically? Or let's go to that single-person bathroom right now?"
"Ew. I'm not blowing someone in a single-person bathroom."
"No? Only multi-people bathrooms for you?" he teases.
"No bathrooms."
"Never?" He raises a brow, challenging me.
"Maybe… once. After some alcoholic beverages. At a party."
"Sean?"
"His birthday."
"Fuck, I really don't like him." He shakes his head.
"You wouldn't ask that? For your birthday?"
"You think I'm that uncreative?"
"You have a more creative ask?"
He nods hell yeah.
I motion go on.
"With anyone? Or you?"
"Let's say it was me."
"What are we doing in this hypothetical scenario?" he asks.
"Isn't that the question?"
"No." He refills his cup. Then mine. Like this is a normal conversation on a normal day. "Are we strangers at a party? Long-term lovers? Boyfriend/girlfriend?"
"Friends who got drunk enough they decided hooking up would be a good idea."
The playfulness drops from his expression. He gives me a long, slow once-over. Stops at my hips, chest, mouth. "It's a one-time thing?"
"Undefined."
"If I only get one chance, I'm not going to waste it on a blow job." His voice drops another octave. "I'm going to watch you come. See the way your expression changes. See your eyes fill with pleasure. Hear my name on your lips."
Fuck.
"I'm going to feel you pulsing around my cock. And I'm going to watch it happen. So, sure, we can do the bathroom at a party. But only if I've got you pinned to the counter and I'm fucking you from behind and we're both watching every second."
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah.
Pretty much all I have here is oh.
Chapter Nineteen
Oliver
Shit.
It occurs to me the second the words are out of my mouth.
I need to do something, anything to slam the brakes.
Of course, I don't.
I'm not Oliver Flynn, smart, productive, well-functioning member of society.
I'm Oliver Flynn, self-destructive fuckup.
Only I don't care. The consequences are too far away. The reasons are fuzzy.
Luna is so fucking gorgeous. Of course, I want that sassy mouth on me. Of course, I want to see pleasure spill over her expression, fill her pretty eyes, soften her neat brows.
She stares at me; her grey eyes wide, her soft lips parted.
They're not that same pinkish red anymore. Half her lipstick is on the clean white cup.
Will it stain me the same way?
My neck, chest, cock—
My sheets, shirt, boxers—
Fuck, she's still staring.
And I'm still thinking about her naked.
And this is still—
What the fuck are we doing here?
Right. The mock-up. The temporary tattoo. The promise of my mark on her skin forever.
Thank fuck for dark denim. My jeans aren't doing enough to hide my hard-on, but they're doing something.
I reach for some way to slow this train. "So, uh, why silver?" It's a stupid question, but it's something.
"Huh?"
"Your hair? You changed it so you wouldn't give a certain impression—"
"Have you thought about that before?" she asks.
"Your hair?"
"Us. At a—"
"Off the cuff."
"So you…" Her throat quivers as she swallows. Her eyes fix on my lips. Jaw. Neck. Then down my torso.
"I know what I like."
"Oh."
"And you?"
"And I?"
This isn't exactly changing the subject away from sex. But at least it's not about how I want to watch her come. "What would you want? As your birthday gift?"
"It's not for six months."
"Even so."
Her eyes stay on my crotch for a quick second then they move back up my body. "I don't know. I guess I don't want sexual favors. I don't want someone to do something because it's my birthday. I want them to do it because they want to."
"What if your guy gave you carte blanche? His fantasy is filling your fantasy." Fuck, what is wrong with me? I bite my tongue. Not that it helps pull the words out of the air.
They're still there.
She's still staring.
She's still so fucking beautiful.
I need to make her come. It's the only thing in the world that makes sense.
Sobriety is a drag, work is fine, running is okay.
But Luna groaning my name?
That's better than anything.
"Just the one time?" she asks. "That's a lot of pressure."
"Whatever comes to you."
She laughs okay but it does nothing to ease the tension in the air. "I guess… I have this regular fantasy. We're at a party. It's a nice night, but no one is outside. So we sneak to the backyard. To one of those big lounge chairs. It's dark. Hard to see us. But if someone really looked, they could."