"Like yellow snow, boogers, hair in food..."
"Used band-aids floating in a pool!" she chimed in, oddly excited. "Someone clipping their nails at a restaurant."
"My brother's dirty socks."
That one made her laugh. "Stepping on a snail, stepping in gum, stepping in—"
"You know? I'm not sure I want to hear the end of that. I'm probably about ready."
I wasn't. Things had only improved a bit. But going inside and dealing with whatever was happening would take care of the rest.
And then, I'd see if there was a way to salvage the rest of this once-promising date.
Seventeen
Astrid
He finally stood up, and I absolutely did not let my eyes drift down his body. Nope. That would be stupid.
And yet, like a complete idiot, I did it anyway. And sure enough, there was a significant bulge there.
Damn it.
I swallowed, remembering exactly how large he was, how that cock had felt so incredible inside me, filling me up so completely, that pleasure and fullness combining into pure magic I'd never in my life forget.
No. Absolutely not. I had to stop this line of thinking. Tristan Hawthorne was a monster. And not the good kind.
Still, the fact that my touch could do that to him was... something. But that was all. It didn't mean anything besides the fact that I was turning in an amazing performance tonight, being all soft and sweet and apparently sexy?
I was doing a fantastic job of keeping to my original mission, refusing to be taken in by his pretty face and smooth words... or the thought of him rushing home in a cramped airline seat or being kind to his little brother.
Ugh.
After ogling his crotch area—seriously, Astrid, get a grip—I made the mistake of meeting his stare, his eyes boring into me, dark and oh so sexy.
No. Not sexy. Just... visually appealing tosomepeople but not me.
He didn't say anything, the air suddenly charged, the snowflakes falling down around us creating a ridiculously cinematic scene.
Turning away so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash, I focused on the dishes, reaching for my empty plate.
"Leave them," Tristan said in that deep and gravelly voice that sent goosebumps skittering across my skin, a purely biological reaction, nothing more. "Archie can clean up and earn his money."
He closed the space between us, sighing then picking up his jacket and ushering me toward the door with a hot hand on my back.
"Not how I pictured this night going," he muttered under his breath as we walked down the stairs.
"It's okay," I assured him. "It's an adventure."
"That's one way to look at it."
His face was a strange mixture of grumpy and amused as he led me down the elegant hallway, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor on the way to his door.
Holding my breath as we entered his place, I had no idea what to expect. Some ultra-modern bachelor pad? An impersonal, magazine-spread-worthy space that screamed wealth and prestige? From what I knew about Tristan, I figured it would be impressive.
And it was—all high ceilings, crown molding, and massive windows framing a stunning view of Central Park. But while it was sleek, it wasn't soulless thanks to the plush couches, agorgeous fireplace, and, of course, a minimalist bar that was oddly empty.
His eyes followed my gaze, and he answered the question on my face. "I locked away all my liquor, you know, just in case..."
