Page 58 of Pucked Up Plans
“What if I suck at it?” I flinch as the words leave my mouth. “No pun intended.”
“Then you suck. And we’ll try another time. It’s not the end of the world to go without blow jobs for a few weeks. Trust me.” He smiles again, a little bigger.
Although he didn’t pose it as a question, I answer it anyway. “I do trust you. I already can’t wait for next time. We’re going to need a lot more than a couple of hours.”
This man brings out my bold side, the one who’s laid dormant since the day in the school bathroom when she walked out pregnant. I’m digging her. Hopefully, with a few more years’ experience—as well as being a mom—she’s learned to be more cautious.
“Like a sleepover?” he suggests happily.
The shock value of his words hits like a blow to the head.
A sleepover? With Walsh? How would that work?
His fingers on my chin draw my focus back to him. “It will all work itself out. Don’t fuss over the semantics or the logistics of how it will get done. We’ll get there. I’m happy to wait.”
“What ifI’mnot?” My subconscious mind conjures up the idea. As much as I want this with him, I have some patience.
Maybe.
My knees touch his thighs. He flashes the most ridiculous yet adorable smirk. “Oh, but you will have patience. That’s all there is to it.” He reaches his arms out to pull me into him, I assume, but instead, he shifts me out of his way and crawls out of my bed. He strides purposefully for the door, his posterior on full display. If I thought it looked good in clothes, I was sorely mistaken.
Hot damn.
The muscles of his powerful thighs flex with each step, his tight ass outlined in his boxer briefs. Like solid globes of muscle. As if he does one hundred squats a day.
Stopping at the doorway, one arm on the jamb, he half turns to me. “Good thing you need to shower. You need to wipe up the pool of drool on your chin.”
Dazedly, I swipe my fingers over my face, coming up dry. Realizing he’s caught me, his left eye winks as a playful laugh fills my bedroom.
“So, I’ll shower first?”
“S-sure,” I stammer, my tongue feeling too big for my mouth.
Only when he’s completely out of sight do I drop back onto the bed, the breath I didn’t realize I was holding expelling loudly.
He called me out on my staring, yet I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face.
The fact he somehow got us alone. Even though we didn’t have sex—neither one of us taking a chance without protection—it still tops the list of best sexual interactions I’ve ever had. Jeez, what’s going to happen when we have sex?
“It’s going to be incredible,” I whisper to the empty room.
Without the result of what happened last time—my body can’t help but shiver—I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the act itself.
While Walsh is in the shower, I imagine it, but as soon as the water stops, I shut down the inappropriateness. One, we don’t have time for anything else. Two, I don’t want to overthink it too much, make it out to be something amazing in my head that fizzles in reality. Not in a million years do I think that might happen, but still.
Hop off the sex-thoughts train, Tate.
Walsh reappears in the doorway in my towel. Small drops of water fall from his short strands of hair cascading down his naked, broad chest. My eyes can’t help but gawk at him. At the sheer muscles in his pecs, a hockey stick tattoo inked on the right one. At his well-defined, six-pack abs, the delineated divots begging to be licked. The trim waist, the cut V lines disappearing into the towel. Who knew those existed outside of fictional book boyfriends?
His voice slices into my perusal. “It’s all yours. Hope you don’t mind I used your shampoo and soap.”
My mouth, dry as the Sahara, forbids me from speaking. My head nods—I think.
Slowly, I get off the bed, my mind on anything but the task at hand. He blocks the exit, and I’m compelled to stop in front ofhim. The scent of my soap mixed with a hint of something else floods my nostrils.
Walsh,my mind provides. The “something else” is Walsh.
“Tate?”
