Out On a Limb(7)
Ah.
I should think. I should absolutely think before I speak. But I don’t. I rarely do, unfortunately. “Did something happen to your…?” I finish the sentence I never should have spoken by pointing to his lap.
Winnifred June McNulty, you cannot ask people if their junk is broken. What is wrong with you?
“Oh, no. Nothing. Top shape.” He winces at his choice of words. Or perhaps just the conversation overall.
I have to fix this. I’m not this person—the one who pries and fumbles and makes someone feel uncomfortable about their body or its differences. I cannot be that person. That’d make me a massive hypocrite.
I approach gently, resting my hand on top of his. “Then I’m sure it’s not all that different.” I hesitate, waiting for him to make eye contact with me. “I’m willing to try, if you are. It could be a lot of fun.”
He turns to face me, and his eyes are darkened, enlarged pupils and tight-knit brow. “Why was that so hot?” he asks, whispering, his voice near disbelief.
There it is, I think. A sliver of my pride returns.
“The moment you shook my hand with your left, I was ready to do this.” I bite down on my smile. “I imagine it’s something similar to that? Knowing I get the holdup, to some extent?”
His eyes dip down to my lips again as he nods, eyes entranced and glistening.
“So what will it be?” I ask, leaning close enough that I can count the exact number of freckles on his cheeks that spread across his nose like a bridge between them. “Because if I have to inquire again, I may attempt to drown myself in the punch bowl.”
Without hesitation, Bo closes the distance between us and kisses me, tender and brief, with his hand across my jaw. His lips are plush and warm and damn near intoxicating. “Yes,” he says, inhaling hungrily, his forehead pressed against mine. He laughs lowly, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear before letting the same hand drag down my neck, shoulder, and arm. “C’mon,” he says, taking my hand in his as he moves away to stand.
“Wait,” I say, pulling him back. “I’m going to go upstairs first. I’ll make sure no one else has gotten the same idea and is defiling the guest bedroom. You go to the kitchen and get us some water or something. It’s the last door on the left.”
“Okay.” He nods eagerly, a few too many times for my liking. It reminds me of Caleb’s puppy-dog willingness, causing a quick thrill of panic to course through me.
I can’t handle one more guy being too nice in the bedroom. I need to know that all this chemistry between us won’t fizzle out the moment we get upstairs.
“Bo, can you promise me something?” I ask.
His bottom lip pushes out as he nods again, less eagerly. “Sure?”
“I need you to promise me that we’ll both enjoy tonight. I’ve had a string of lousy hookups this year, and if I have to fake another orgasm, I think I’ll be legally required to become a nun or something.” I bite my lip, anxious that I perhaps am asking too much from him, a near perfect stranger.
He doesn’t bat an eye, but his boyish grin comes back in full, brutal force. “Win, if you walk out of that room sturdier than me, I won’t be happy.”
A leg joke? Be still my beating heart.
I cover my mouth as I gasp, a singular laugh breaking through. “You did not.”
“I did,” he says, relaxing back on the couch. He raises his hand back to my hair again, playing with it as his eyes fall yet again to my lips with equal measures of desire and amusement. “Now… go upstairs and wait for me.”
CHAPTER 3
“That feels so good,” I sigh out blissfully, letting my belt fall to the floor of the en suite bathroom. I open the drawer under the sink that Sarah keeps stocked with an obscene amount of toiletries and find everything I might need for a quick refresh.
I fetch floss, mouthwash, deodorant, and a few makeup wipes for a quick downstairs clean. It may throw off my pH balance, but that’s Win of tomorrow’s problem.
I hear a soft knock, followed by a creaking door opening, then shutting in the adjoining room.
“I’ll be out in a minute!” I call, removing some of the dark eye makeup I smeared on before the party.
“This is their guest bedroom?” Bo asks from the other side of the door, clearly impressed.
“You’re in finance, right? How much do you think this house is worth?” I ask before taking a shot of mouthwash and swishing it around my mouth, then trying to quietly spit it out.
He laughs but doesn’t humour me with a guess.
I toss my head forward, using my forearm and the crook of my wrist alongside my left hand to gather all of my hair into a high pony. I take off the leather skirt and boots but leave my white blouse—with extra buttons undone—and fishnet tights on.
With a few centring breaths, I apply some lip gloss, smack my lips together, and attempt to gather every shred of confidence required to open the door to the bedroom.
Sarah’s guest room is decorated in grey moody wallpaper and dark floors with a small chandelier in the centre of the room. I dimmed all the lights to a soft, flattering glow before making a mad dash to the bathroom. In the middle of the room, there’s a queen-size bed covered in a crisp white linen duvet, taupe knitted blankets, and throw pillows.