How to End a Love Story(53)

He swallows hard.

“You’re my favorite thing to look at in that room,” he says suddenly, and drops to his knees in front of her.

He presses a trail of kisses from her stomach to the elastic lace band of her underwear.

“And no matter how hard I try”—he presses more kisses against the lace triangle front now, insistent, hot, seeking, and she gasps—“you never look back at me.”

“That’s not true,” she mumbles, her fingers tangling in his hair as he licks her boldly through the fabric. “I—I look at you.”

He lets out a short, hot breath that seems to go straight to her clit. Fuck.

“Are you looking at me now?” he murmurs, and she bites her lip to stop from groaning at the delicious friction of his tongue and lace.

Grant looks up at her as he builds a steady rhythm that has her panting. There’s a blaze of heat in his eyes and the lightest sheen of sweat on his forehead. She feels worshipped.

She’s so wet, she’s certain she’s soaked through the fabric, and he practically growls into her.

“You taste so fucking good,” he says, and the wet heat of his mouth sucks against her. “I could dine on this pussy every night and come back for dessert.”

A strangled whimper comes out of her, and she thinks that if anyone were to walk in, she’d be completely incapable of doing anything but pressing his glorious mouth closer.

“Grant,” she whispers.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“I want . . .” She bites her lip as the thin ridge of his tongue presses against her clit through the fabric. “I want to come on your tongue. Please.”

In a fluid motion, he pushes the lace of her underwear aside and presses his tongue against the folds of her tortured skin. Her hand reaches out blindly and lands on his jawline, feeling his stubble and the tension of his jaw as he works his mouth against her.

She lets out a shuddering gasp and feels a wave of oblivion rock through her, as all the world disappears beyond a single spot on Grant Shepard’s miraculous tongue. Yes, yes, yes, yes.

She comes back into her body gradually, and when she looks down at him, he’s watching her with hungry eyes as he brushes the back of his hand against his mouth.

He drops a swift kiss to the inside of her thigh and she shivers.

He stands then and she feels herself arching under his leaning body as he reaches past her. She can’t help but notice a dark spot of pre-come on his jeans and the muscles working on his neck, begging to be kissed. He grabs a thin blue dry-erase marker from a cup of pens and uncaps it.

“What are you doing?” she murmurs, as he drops back into his swivel chair lazily.

He presses the felt tip of the marker to her inner right thigh and starts writing.

“Giving you my address,” he says. “In case Santa Monica is too far to drive after your date.”

He looks up at her then and she catches a glint of humor in his eyes as his hand lightly squeezes her thigh.

“It’s washable marker,” he says, and her heart does a funny kind of flip. “If you’re worried about it.”

She is worried about it, though not about the washable blue ink. She’s worried that even after she washes it off, her skin will refuse to forget the feel of him. She’s worried they’re careening toward something inevitable.



Greg the casting director meets her at a bowling alley in Burbank, near the studio lot.

“There’s an ice-skating rink and an equestrian center nearby, if we need ideas for a second date,” he says.

Helen smiles, and picks out a marbled purple bowling ball that suddenly reminds her of the bath bomb she used to sulk over Grant’s radio silence last week. She forcefully redirects her thoughts to the charming, perfectly fine man in front of her.

“Do you bowl often?” she asks.

“No,” Greg says, and rolls an impressive spare anyway. “Damn, that was just dumb luck.”

“So what was the thought process behind the survey form options?” she asks. “I’d love to know.”

“Well, the thing about dating is that it should be fun,” he says. “I came up with the form a while back as a way to make it fun for myself. I tried to come up with options of things my friends and I are always saying we’ve been meaning to do, but never get around to.”

“It’s novel,” she says, and rolls a gutter ball.

“There’s an optional exit survey,” Greg says. “I have the email on auto-send so I don’t chicken out.”

“Sounds like you’re collecting a lot of data,” Helen says.

“Not as much as you’re thinking,” Greg laughs. “I’m not that kind of fella, Helen.”

She laughs and thinks to herself that Greg would probably make someone a good boyfriend. He’s funny and easy to talk to, always ready to fill a pause in the conversation with an anecdote from work or a thoughtful question. She learns that he has two older brothers, one who also works in the industry and another who works in information systems in Vegas. She tells him about how she’s been thinking of other possible book series ideas to pitch to her agent.

“Maybe something with a league of teen bowlers,” she says, and manages to knock a paltry few pins down.

“Do you want some pointers?” he asks, because he really is better than her.