Dicking? Seriously, Willow?
I’d be embarrassed at my train of thoughts, but I can’t find it in me to blush in the slightest. Last night, I rode him through our clothes, dry humping like we were kids in high school. I’d seriously doubted my ability to come from that alone, because orgasms are mysterious things that sometimes take geometry, a psychologist, and a wish on a star, but he pulled it out of me easily with those growled words in my ear.
It was so good I’d boldly asked if we were going to his place, like some dick-starved Tinderella, which I am not, by any means.
I press my forehead to the cool mirror, eyes locked on the gray ones looking back at me. After a moment, I start laughing. What else am I going to do? This is crazy, but in the best possible way.
Today will be another first. Bobby is picking me up for our ‘official first date’, as he called it. I’d tried to argue that the tour had been date one and my showing up at the farm was date two, making today date three. He’d flashed that cocky smile, scrubbing at the scruff of beard on his sharp jawline as though that would hide it, then said ‘fuck it’ as he cupped my jaw and let that smile shine bright. Right before he kissed me, he let me in on the joke and whispered, “There’s no three-date rule with us, sweetheart.”
I blushed. I hadn’t even meant it that way, but maybe somewhere deep inside, I had. A little bit.
But if he’s coming over, I’d better finish getting ready. I don’t put on makeup, knowing what I have in mind, and go for sunscreen along my nose and cheeks instead.
Right as I’m tying my tennis shoes, I hear the rumble of his truck coming down the street and pulling into my drive. I peek out the blinds, knowing my neighbors are likely doing the same thing. I let him climb out of his jacked up monster truck, walk to the door, and knock before I let the blinds close and move to let him in.
“Hey!” I greet as the door swings open.
I watch his eyes move leisurely up and down my frame, narrowing incrementally until they reach mine again. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Just like that, I’m a pile of gooey, messy Jell-O for him, nearly melting into a puddle at his feet.
“Can’t wait to see what you have planned today. I’ll admit the girls said my ideas sucked.” I’m not sure his tanned skin would show a true blush, but he looks a little sheepish, which makes me curious as hell.
“Now you have to tell me what your ideas were,” I demand, crossing my arms and smiling.
He cringes, and I think the girls must’ve really given him a hard time if he’s this reluctant to even share. But he tells me anyway, “Idea one, photo tour. They said it was lame because I’d already done that. I argued that the wildflowers over on Zion Hill are pretty and that you’d like them, but they reminded me that taking a woman to a cemetery, even a historical one, for flower pictures is weird as hell, and in Shay’s words, ‘is bad bow-chicka-bow-wow juju.’ I told them about your watching crime shit on tv, and they said that only made it worse.”
He shrugs, and I can’t help but laugh a bit. “Maybe we save the wildflowers for another day so I’m mentally prepared to pull up to a cemetery. A historical one, of course,” I correct myself. “What else?”
“I asked Katelyn if she could get us in at the resort. Do some of that fancy, girly shit like gunk on your face and a massage. I thought it’d be relaxing because you work so much.” I can hear that he used that argument with Katelyn too. “She said couples’ massages on a first date might be a bit aggressive.” He says the word as if it tastes bad on his tongue, while I have to laugh. Couple’s massage is aggressive, but bad bow-chicka-bow-wow juju isn’t?
I lay my hand on his chest, feeling the hard muscle there and not swooning . . . nope, not a bit. Fine, I’m like a cover model in a Harlequin romance. Giving him my most dazzling smile, I reassure him, “That would’ve been amazing. But I have other plans today if you’re up for it.” His brow lifts, and I swear his dark eyes get even darker. “Did you bring the stuff I asked you to?”
His eyes go from sexing me to curious without even blinking. “I did,” he drawls out slowly, “but I’m not sure why.”
“Okay then, let’s go.” I push him out the door and toward his truck. In turn, he lets me lead this show. I don’t think he does that for many people or very often.