Mike interrupted him “To replace Jill?”
Dylan let out a big breath of air. “I thought that’s what we were doing...” he said, shaking his head.
Mike frowned. Where was he going with this?
“But it’s not about that any more. It’s about moving on. It’s not about replacing Jill. It’s about—” Dylan paused, his eyebrows raised, his body relaxing. “It’s about Laura. It’s not about Jill, not any more.”
Just when he was starting to enjoy his self-righteous anger, Dylan had to go and get all reasonable and introspective. “All right, fair enough.” Mike held his hand out. “Truce?”
Dylan grabbed him and hugged him. “No need for a truce. There was never a battle.”
“Oooo, what kind of pasta is that? Spinach? Basil?” Laura marveled at the spread Mike was putting out for this meal. So much food! You would think they were having dinner for more than the two of them.
“It’s green.” He shrugged.
“Hold on! I’m mocked when I don’t know what kind of wine the red stuff is, but you get a pass on green pasta?” She mock pouted. “No fair.” Silly and playful, Laura felt giddy. The giddiness drove out the guilt. Sort of. In many ways, this date with Mike was a test. Sleep with Dylan. Sleep with Mike. Sleep with Dylan at work, sleep with Mike tonight in this amazing cabin. Then everything would be fair and balanced.
What are you, Laura? Fox News?
He stirred the pasta, steam floating up in swirls like magic potion from a cauldron, his white cotton button-down tucked nicely into tan business pants. Shirt sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, Mike looked a little too business casual for her. She liked him sporty. Sweaty.
Naked, actually.
What he was wearing now made her think of middle management. Corporate life. A flash of her beige office and her legs wrapped around Dylan’s naked ass made her wince.
“You OK?” Mike peered at her, concerned. “Something wrong?”
Shake it off. “No, just—no.”
He bent over the stove, his frame so tall he had to crouch to fit under the hood. It made her feel liliputian. No one— ever—made her feel diminutive, yet somehow Mike mastered it. She liked it.
Liked his cabin, too. How in the hell did a ski instructor afford this? Four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, a deck bigger than the house she’d grown up in, and a sliding door at the lower level where you could just ski right up, unbuckle your boots and snap off the skis, and come right in. Decorated in knotty pine and colors that screamed “Ski lodge!”, the place was amazing.
All this and an apartment in the city, too? He hadn’t invited her there, though. Just here.
Next date.
Why had he just turned the burner off? Laura took a big swig from her glass of Pinot Grigio (she was learning) and Mike grabbed the bottle, filling it instantly.
His grin was saucy, a wolfish look on his face. “Like the wine?”
Gulp. Three big mouthfuls and she finished half the glass. Thoughts of Dylan kept invading. The brush of his fingers on her inner thighs. The rasp of his stubble against her ear. The texture of his ass as it tightened under her steady palms as he thrust—
Gulp. Enough wine and maybe he would quit invading her brain.
Maybe you should quit inviting him.
“Earth to Laura.” Mike. Oh, yeah. Mike. The back of his hand brushed against her cheek, fingers stroking her face, tucking loose hair behind her ear, then trailing lazily down to her collar bone, one palm cupping her breast as he bent down for a kiss.
The touch of his lips on hers made her swoon. Spinning rooms were never really her thing, but the wine hit her as his warm body crushed against hers and she went limp, his strong arms holding her in place as his tongue provided an elegant rough draft of what it was going to do in, oh, about five minutes,
On her clit.
She pulled back, blinked coyly, grabbed the wine bottle from the counter and filled her glass again. This time there was no pretense of gentility; she chugged it like a sorority girl at a kegger, placed the glass down on the granite counter with a click, and grinned like a fool.
“Are you really hungry for something green?” The flooding warmth that covered her was equal parts wine and arousal for what she knew was coming.
Her.
“I’m more in the mood for a pale blond.” His fingers brushed her loose, blonde curls away from her neck. She shivered, his touch like an unwinding sigh. Kisses delivered to her throat, her earlobe, then her mouth made her throat tighten, her legs loosen, and the rest of her melt.
“Or,” he added, one hand traveling up from her hip to her breast, “I’m pretty sure I’d prefer something pink.” They had both dressed more casually, the intent of the evening clear. When Mike had shyly suggested she bring an overnight bag, he didn’t need hand puppets, markers and a white board to explain what he expected from the date. Muscular and wiry at the same time, he managed to look like a gentle giant and a lanky teen all at once.