“Cherry lip-gloss,” I tell him as I wind my arms around his neck and thread my fingers into his short hair. His body is hard against my much softer one. Even through his dress shirt, I can feel ripped muscles, steel abs, and glorious pecs. He is perfection in a designer shirt and a tattoo.
“You’re gonna have to put more on in a few minutes. This layer is going to be smeared all over my face when I’m done with you,” he says just before devouring my lips once again. His kiss is hungry and full of passion. My legs practically give out as he consumes my lips, my mouth, and my soul.
When Blake reluctantly pulls away, we’re both left breathless and wanting. I suddenly wouldn’t care if we forego this entire evening and stayed naked in bed all night after ordering Chinese food. “We need to go,” he says before placing one last lingering kiss on my swollen lips.
“We could just stay here,” I remind him, running my hands down his hard back.
“Not tonight. I have plans for us, babe,” he says as he pulls back. He takes several moments to adjust himself, trying to will his impressive hard-on to ebb.
“I can think of something that would help you with your little problem,” I offer boldly, running my finger down the zipper of his pants. His cock jerks beneath my touch, and I know that it would only take a few more strokes before he’d be fully on-board with my “Forget The Date” plan.
“Not gonna happen,” he says and pulls back completely. “I’m taking you out on a proper date tonight. If you’re lucky, I’ll give you a peck on the cheek before I walk you to your doorstep later this evening,” he says, those green eyes dark and needy.
“What?” I ask, shocked at the thought of the unexpected ending to our evening. That’s not exactly something to look forward to.
Blake chuckles while he grabs my wrap from the counter. “Just kidding,” he says as he wraps me in the soft cashmere. “Don’t worry, Carly. I’m planning on fucking you tonight until the only thing you’ll remember is the sound of my name on your lips and the feel of my body inside of yours,” he whispers before running his tongue along the shell of my ear. My knees practically give out, sending me spilling to the floor in a big pile of hormonal goo.
Blake steers me towards the door, which is great considering I lost all sense of direction a few moments ago. With his hand firmly wrapped around mine, he leads me towards the elevator and down to the bottom floor. His old Camaro is parked in the lot, and he’s ever the gentleman as he helps me into the passenger seat. The inside of his car is exactly how I had pictured it; clean, organized, meticulous. Everything has its place.
“Ready?” he asks as he backs out of the parking spot.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“We’re having dinner at Prime Steakhouse inside of the Bellagio and then we’re going to watch the fountains,” he says casually, his forearm flexing underneath his shirtsleeve as he turns the wheel.
“The fountains?” I ask curiously.
Blake gives me a sheepish grin. “When I was younger–like in my early teens–I always thought it’d be cool to take a date to see the fountains. I don’t know why, really.” Blake appears to be in thought for several moments. “I guess when you grow up here, you take some of those little things for granted. Like the fountain. So, I’m fulfilling a teenage dream I had about taking a date there,” he says with a small smile.
“I think it’s sweet,” I tell him, squeezing his hand on the steering wheel.
“Oh, don’t go thinking I’m too sweet, baby. What’s going to happen later tonight when we get home is fulfilling my other teenage dream,” he says with an ornery grin that makes my panties wet and my heartbeat skyrocket. “And there’s nothing sweet about it.”
“Do I want to know?” I ask breathlessly.
“I’m planning to just show you,” he says while bringing my hand up to his mouth. The kisses he places on my knuckles are open-mouthed, and each time he scrapes his teeth along my flesh, he stokes the fire inside of me just a little bit hotter.
We chat about my work the entire ride to the Bellagio. One thing I’ve noticed about Blake, he never voluntarily offers information about his life and his work. I always have to ask for a morsel of detail. He answers me the best he can, but it’s obvious he’s holding something back. I try not to stew about it or let it bother me too much because I told him that I trusted him. Yet, that still doesn’t settle the churning deep in my stomach.