A Serving of Forever (Lights Camera Insta-love 3)

“M-men…” Quinn stutters, unable to meet my eyes. “Well, sure, I think that would be one advantage, don’t you? Being more assertive.” She rolls her lips inward. “Maybe if I feel confident and even”—her voice drops to a whisper—“sexy, that self-assurance will extend to other areas of my life. Making friends and taking risks. Things like that.”

“So the purpose of this lesson with me is to feel sexy?” All right, I’m not hating the sound of this. Although, getting confirmation that she wants to ask out other men is fucking with my head—and my heart—big time. I don’t want those beautiful hazel eyes to look at another man. Ever. But there might be a chance here to prove I can be her one. The only man she ever wants to ask out again. Period. “If I’m going to make you feel sexy, Quinn, that means we’ll be touching. A lot.”

Does her gaze rake over my chest? “It crossed my mind,” she whispers.

Hope swells in my middle—and lower—fattening my cock in my jeans. “You want that? My hands on you?” I drop my head toward hers. “My mouth on you. All over you.”

She swallows. “Yes. I-in the name of education, of course.”

My hope deflates a little. My dick does not. “Right.” I drain my coffee in a few gulps and toss the paper cup in the trash can. “No time to waste. We better start tonight.”

“Tonight?” she squeaks. “How? Where?”

I wink at her. “My place. Queens.”

“Queens?”

My laugh echoes in the bodega. “It’s over the bridge, sweetheart, not on the moon.”

“Yes, but…I don’t have clothes or a toothbrush or—”

“Let’s head to your place first, then.” I put a hand on the small of her back and ease her toward the exit. “Don’t pack a lot of clothes, though. You won’t be needing them.”

“Oh my,” Quinn murmurs, putting a wrist to her forehead. “You’re going to be the first man to…” She stops short. “To be in my apartment.”

“That’s one hell of a euphemism.”

“It wasn’t. My cat is going to have a heart attack.”

“A pussy joke now? You’re on fire.”

Her giggle makes me want to propose marriage, right there on the filthy sidewalk. I hail a cab and help her into the backseat, her hand so perfect in mine. So right. And I know I’ve got one night to make this woman fall for me, the way I’ve fallen for her.

Don’t mess it up.

4

Quinn

My apartment seems so much smaller with this giant man inside of it.

As predicted, my cat reacts like she’s been electrocuted at the sight of a stranger and vanishes. I trip over my area rug because Desmond is so distracting, picking up my little knickknacks with his big paws, turning them over as if he’s trying to learn about me through my possessions.

Stop that fanciful thinking.

He’s doesn’t have feelings for me.

No. Not only did we meet just this morning, but I’ve sort of coerced him into teaching me how to be sexy and confident. He’s a beautiful firefighter with an outgoing personality—surely he wants nothing serious with awkward, introverted me. So why has he agreed to help me? Well I don’t know a lot about men, but I’m quite certain they don’t turn down no-strings flings with a woman. That’s all tonight will be for Desmond.

For me?

A whole other story.

I’m drawn to this man, even more than I’m enticed by a well-seasoned French cassoulet. He’s kind and funny and listens to me when I speak. His hearty laugh matches the rest of him. Even his heart, I’m sensing. I can still feel his hand on the base of my spine as he led me across the street and the memory of his protectiveness makes me want to…to…bite his thick thighs. Yes, bite them. Sensually.

I hardly know myself anymore—and I kind of like that.

I like how brave and unconcerned with keeping up appearances I am around him. There is no worry about having the proper response or filling holes with small talk about the weather. He makes me feel comfortable in my own skin.

Even so, I cannot believe I basically asked him to be my sex tutor. I can’t believe I am actually going to go through with it—and more than that, I’m excited. A night in Queens! It might as well be Madagascar for all the time I’ve spent there. But I’m eager to see Desmond’s house. If I only have one night to revel in him, I’m going to make the most out of it.

I realize I’ve been quietly staring at him like a nutcase for a solid two minutes.

“Would you like anything to drink?” I blurt.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” He points at a picture on the mantle. The one of me holding a framed copy of my first restaurant review in the New York Times, an older woman standing behind me. “This your mother?”