Page 11 of The Playboy SEAL
Teala looks down at my hand and back up at my face. “I’d usually say, let’s get out of here, but I can’t.”
I blow out a long breath. Our food arrives, so I have time to figure out how to remedy this situation. I drain my beer and notice she hasn’t taken a sip of her own drink since we’ve sat down. She’s purposely staying sober. Why? Because I’m so appealing and she’s trying to hold back, or because she wants to be completely sober when I make her legs tingle? She chews slowly, politely, but keeps her eyes on her salad and far away from me. I’d think it a shy gesture if everything elseabout this woman didn’t ooze sex and seduction. We talk about mundane things for a second or two. She asks my age, and I answer truthfully.
For the most part, I let my food sit untouched in front of me. During a lull in the conversation I tell her what I’m really thinking. “I want you,” I say, my voice just loud enough for her to hear me. “I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you into oblivion, Teala.”
Her fork clanks against her plate. My cock hardens under the table.
Swallowing the mouthful of food, her steely eyes flick up to meet mine. “Tell me about yourself instead.”
In this moment, I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more. This isn’t insta-love, or even insta-lust. I want to insta-fuck. Plain and simple.
CHAPTER FIVE
Teala
His dark brows knit togetherin confusion, and his full lips twist in wry amusement. Even in amused confusion, his face remains in complete symmetry. Macs may very well be the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. If it weren’t for his overtly large muscles, his appearance lends to that of a high fashion model. The type of man you see in magazines or in movies. You get to look, but never touch.
If there is a God, he has a messed-up sense of humor. Why is it that men, the species that barely contributes to procreation, get better looking with age, and women, the ones responsible for giving birth and harboring monthly periods for fifty-plus years, wilt? Literally: tits, ass, thighs, slowing metabolism—the works. Women have to work harder at the gym every single year. Looking at Macs, who is the same exact age as me, forces displaced anger and discontent. It’s not fair, and there’s no one to blame except genetics.
He runs a hand through the side of his perfectlysculpted hair, and it draws my gaze up from his mouth. He shakes his head, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Typically I don’t talk about myself. Why don’t you tell me about yourself if you’re so keen on talkinginstead?”
I want instead, but I can’t have it. Not tonight, anyway. It’s a shame. Perhaps the biggest shame on the planet.
“It’s obvious you didn’t want to actually go on a date with me,” I deadpan. “Not a real one, anyway.”
He shrugs. “It’s obvious you want more than a date with me,” he counters. “I can make this areal onepretty quickly.” His lips twitch.
Puffing my own lips out, I release a held breath.
I turn away from him. I see a couple of my yoga studio patrons staring in my direction, so I force a smile to my face. It’s still on my face when I turn back to him. “You want to know about me? You actually care to know trivial details of a person you just met?” I ask. One glance tells me all I need to know about Macs. He has a single-minded focus with regard to the opposite sex. I can’t be upset about that. It’s a sentiment I share fully.
He has a mouthful of food sliding around his mouth. “I asked, didn’t I?”
Oh, he’s such a charmer. He’s used to getting whatever he wants, and I guess it’s obvious at this point he isn’t getting me. Not tonight. Even if I’d love nothing more than to take him home and show him exactly how amazing I am at “sex and sayonara.” I think it would impress him. Maybe.
“I’ll take it you’ve learned basic details about me from Ryan. Hopefully not too much,” I end with, suddenlyembarrassed. I’ve had sex with his friend. Why doesn’t he find that unappealing?
Macs throws a finger in the air and signals to the waitress to bring him another beer. He uses a lewd, dimpled smile to thank her. I shiver. It’s an automatic response.
“Moose,” he corrects, “told me a lot of things. Now I’m hesitant to believe anything he told me is truth.” Oh, fiddlesticks. He does know sexual details. “By all means, tell me anything you think I should know about you.” Using the side of his thumb, he traces his bottom lip back and forth.
Sliding my head from one side to the other, I bring up a hand to cradle the back of my neck, a nervous gesture warranted in this new foreign territory. I’m sticky with a light sheen of sweat. “To be honest, you’re making me nervous,” I say, averting my gaze.
“I get that a lot,” he replies, his voice sending a wave of desire coursing through my veins. A mere voice, something that is usually innocuous, affects me. This is going to be harder than I anticipated. Who cares if I win some stupid bet with my friends, anyway? Is it that important?
“You didn’t let me finish. I’m nervous because I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone so self-absorbed.” Now I look at him. If I was hoping to offend him, even mildly, I’ve failed. His beatific smile and his motherfucking dimples tell me the opposite is true. “I get it. I do. But you can turn off the charm. It won’t work on me.” These aren’t small, cute dimples like Moose has. These aremelt my panties offhot.
“Turn it off?” he asks, palming his wide chest with one hand. “I haven’t turned it on yet. Charm me with details about yourself.”
The waitress drops off his beer and scurries off when I send a disenchanted look her way.
I take a sip of my untouched drink. Watered down vodka. “What I would usually tell a date is that my apartment is within walking distance to this restaurant and I expect you to be out of my house before morning.” I press my lips together and wait for him to respond.
He raises one brow. “Moose didn’t lie then.”
No, I’m a sexual deviant with a penchant for jumping bones at the first sight of muscle.
I shake my head. “He told you the truth. That’s my usual protocol, but tonight is different,” I reply. My heart thumps against my chest in excitement. “Unfortunately. I’m turning over a new leaf, and ding, ding, ding, you’re the winner!” A tiny, uncomfortable laugh escapes my mouth. “I mean, you lost in actuality. Now that I’ve met you, I know you’re my old type. I need to find a guy who wants to date like regular people and not have sex until the third or fourth date.” At his wide-eyed stare, I continue. “It’s completely insane. My friends think it’s important for me to find someone normal after my life full of meaningless sex.” I shrug and play at nonchalance. If I don’t make a huge deal about this, maybe he won’t embarrass me too much.
