Someone to Love(5)

“Thank you, I think.” She averts her gaze out the blackened window.

I take in her pale skin, her perfect full lips and my heart pounds against my chest, telling me to knock this shit off or I might accidentally break it again.

The food comes through the window, so I hand Kenny the bags and drinks before heading to the overlook across the way. We can eat in peace on the cliff side with nothing but the Atlantic to distract us from ourselves.

“Where we going?” Her voice spikes as if she suddenly fears for her limbs.

“Just across the street.” I pull into the lot and land square in front of the wooden fence that separates us from a two hundred foot drop. “You can see the beach from here.” I take a quick swig of my soda. “So, where you from?”

“California. I love the beach. I practically grew up on one.” She plays with the thin gold chain around her neck while stretching her gaze over the waterline. “I’ve never been to Massachusetts before. It looks nice from what I can see of it.” She nods toward the windshield. “My mom really wanted me to get into Garrison.” She unbuckles her seatbelt and dips into the bag, handing me a burger. “You know”—she averts her eyes—“work on that M-R-S. Degree.” She gives a sexy gurgle when she says it. “At least that’s what she wants.”

“M-R-S, huh?” A tremble of laughter rattles through me. “Good luck with that.” I take a giant bite of the artery buster in my hand and wash it down with my drink. “Standing at the altar is the last place you’ll find me. I’m pretty sure I’m not getting married.” A knot twists in my gut as if maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to shoot down any false matrimonial fantasies she might be entertaining—especially not if they involve me. I’m pretty sure I’d be happy to star in any damn fantasy she’s willing to put me in.

She plucks out the fries and offers me one, so I accept. There’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t accept from Kenny at the moment.

“No altar for you, huh? That’s because you’re a player.” She says it as fact.

I tick my head back a notch. “Who says I’m a player?”

I’m a player? Shit. I stare dumbfounded out the window a moment. That’s what I’ve become. I guess bedding my way through the Greek alphabet, by way of sorority girls, will do that to a person.

“Yes, you’re a player.” She looks up at me from under those I-double-dog-dare you-to-get-me-in-bed lashes as she sips from her shake.

My gaze dips for a moment, taking in her fully formed, round, incredibly soft-looking cleavage, and my dick perks to attention. I shift and place the bag over my lap in the event things decide to get viral in my Levis.

“I don’t need a roadmap.” She purrs it out low—all vixen and hell on heels. “You had ten girls hanging all over you tonight. I think one of them digested your left ear.”

I catch a glimpse of my slightly singed earlobe in the rearview mirror. “I think her name was Gina, and in her defense, she was offering a demonstration of what she could do with her mouth.” I tuck a smile in the side of my cheek, enjoying the color as it blooms over her face and makes her skin glow. “How about you? You play the game?” I ask mostly to see if I can get her to blush ten shades deeper, see if the color would bleed down her neck and light up her boobs like a pair of Christmas ornaments. Getting Kenny to emit an afterglow has become my mission in life. Besides, I already know that Kenny Jordon is far from a player, and unfortunately for me, that pretty much takes her out of the running for playmate. Too bad I’m not in the market for a girlfriend, if I were, I’d battle to the death to make sure it was her. “On second thought, don’t answer. There’s no way in hell you’d even know what to play with.” This time I bury the smile and go for the cardinal-coated gold. My body ignites with heat just watching her light up a deep velvet crimson.

Her mouth falls open. “No, I’m not a player.” She says it drawn out, incredulous at my taunt. “But I could be.” She crimps a smile, and a tiny dimple implodes in her left cheek. “If I wanted to.”

Hot fucking damn.

Her cleavage magically enlarges as she leans in, and suddenly I’m finding the need to readjust the bag over my lap.

“Although”—she touches her lower lip with her finger, sending my penis in full scale erotic assault mode—“I haven’t really even kissed anybody except for the time I was drunk at my senior graduation.”

“Really?” What the hell is wrong with the guys in California?