Bellamy opts for neither recommendation, choosing angel-hair pasta instead. When the waiter leaves with our order, she glances at me and shrugs. “They say don’t eat long pasta on a date, but it’s not a date, and you’re a sure thing, so I figured I might as well go for it.”
“You say that like a dig, but I’m going to choose to take it as a compliment,” I say.
“As you do,” she acknowledges. Then she asks me more about Emerson and Nolan, and I tell her about their show, then about TJ and his books, and about my cousins Spencer and Jo. I ask her about her social circle and learn more about her long-time friend Hazel, the woman TJ had invited to the party.
“And how is my new crush? What is Coco up to?” she asks.
Chastising me about romance. But I don’t reveal that part. “She’s great. We got pedicures today.”
Bellamy’s face is the picture of glee. “I need all the details, stat,” she demands.
I fill her in on our regular nail salon visits. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I can score you an invitation sometime,” I tease.
She wags a finger at me. “Now that’s the kind of invite I would catfight for.”
I lean closer. “Bet you’d really like an invitation to her birthday party, then. She’s holding it at Stallions and Studs.”
Her eyes widen. “You better get me one. I mean it.”
I shrug, offhand. “I guess we’ll see if you deserve one.”
“I’ll be very, very good.” Then her expression turns serious. “I wanted to ask about those online comments after the piece. They were harsher than I expected. Is there anything I can do?”
“Besides what we’re already doing? This bet thing?”
“Yes.”
“I find blow jobs make almost anything better,” I deadpan.
“I’d be amenable to an IOU in the blow job ledger. Your cock is fantastic to suck.” She licks her lips but doesn’t lose track of the convo. “But seriously. Is there?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I have a meeting with one of my corporate partners this week. I’m sorting through some ideas,” I say. “And this bet thing will go a long way, I’m sure. Especially since I’ll win.”
“Not a chance, cowboy.” She drifts her gaze around the restaurant and settles on another couple, two guys at a neighboring table enrapt in conversation about the best new bands. “They met on Instagram. They both commented on a post about Taylor Swift, got to talking, then moved to the DMs. Now they can’t get enough of each other.”
I shake my head. “Concert. Soho. A divey club with a mosh pit. They were smushed up against each other, locked eyes, and went home together that night. Inseparable. They disagree on nearly everything when it comes to music, but they can’t stop talking about their dislikes.”
She finds another pair. They’re older with weathered faces, but they clink beer glasses, then drink. “They’re toasting to twenty years together. They met on Match, one of the first generation of online daters. They fell in love debating whether Ernest Hemingway is trash or treasure.”
I scoff. “Nope. It was book club at their friend Marge’s Greenwich Village apartment. They all read John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. They debated it for hours, and after everyone else left, they stayed, drinking beer instead of wine and dissecting the matters of faith in the story.”
“They could debate a story for ages,” she says, then lifts that pretty chin like she’s going in for the kill. “Because they both put ‘avid reader’ in their online bios, which is how the algorithms matched them.”
“Well played,” I say.
We proceed through the entire restaurant in this fashion, and by the time we polish off our meals, Bellamy sighs in frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head like she’s annoyed with herself. “I was supposed to get intel on you for your dating profile.”
I smile slyly. “And you did. I just shared all my likes with you.”
It takes a few seconds for her to grasp my meaning, and when she does, her chocolate irises twinkle with breathtaking delight. “You like discussing books, debating music, talking all night long, and . . . fucking.”
I wiggle my brows then pay the bill. “About that last one . . .”
I wrap her hair in my fist as her tits bounce gloriously.
She’s this close.
Her cheeks redden, and she claws at my chest, riding me hard and fast. Intense concentration etches her forehead as she swivels her hips, fucking my shaft with fierce determination, as if she’s using my dick for her pleasure and her pleasure only.
It’s so insanely sexy watching her chase her bliss.
“Yes, fucking yes,” I coax, urging her on as I grip her chestnut strands tighter with one hand, rubbing circles on her clit with my other.
“Don’t stop a thing,” she orders.
“I’d never.”
She goes wild on me, her thighs squeezing my legs, her pelvis grinding against mine.