A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  “I miss the beaches something fierce, bro.” Sam sighs a little wistfully.

  “I don’t get much beach time these days, being in New York. But when I go home, I soak up the rays.”

  “Your job is the opposite of the beach, isn’t it?” I chime in.

  “What do you do?” Sam asks.

  “I play hockey.”

  Sam’s mouth falls open, and a long “Ohhhhhh” falls from his lips. “Dude! I knew you looked familiar. That last game—you guys killed me.”

  “Trust me. It killed us too. We did not want the season to end like that.”

  “But this year, you’re going to go all the way?”

  “Only way to go.”

  “Get us the Cup, man. Get us the Cup,” Sam says, pounding his fist on the bar.

  They knock fists again, and Fitz turns to me. “You didn’t tell me Sam was a hockey fan.”

  “Shockingly, we’ve never discussed hockey before.”

  “Well, discuss it now. I can talk about hockey all night,” Fitz says, and I laugh because I’m sure he can, but he hasn’t brought it up once to me. And I kind of love that he’s not one to push his passions on someone else, and that he has plenty of other things to talk about too.

  Sam shifts gears, gesturing to me. “Did he tell you he’s a pool shark? I met him when he was laying down bets with some of my customers about two years ago.”

  “Is that so?” Fitz asks, enjoying these details.

  “I can’t resist a wager now and then.” Then I look at Sam. “And who are you to talk? You bet me that I couldn’t beat you, and I did. And the prize was—wait for it . . .”

  Sam huffs, annoyed but not really, as he points at me. “This dickhead gets to eat free here forever.”

  Fitz gives me an approving nod. “So, Dean, you’re a hot date, a smart date, and a cheap one. Excellent.”

  Sam laughs. “On that note, let me know if you’re ready to order.”

  Fitz picks the chicken sandwich, hold the bread, offering a faint apology of “I try to lay off carbs during the season.”

  “In that case, bring me all the extra bread you have,” I tell Sam. “Just to taunt him.”

  “Do you want me to tell him you’re a health freak too?” Sam asks in a stage whisper.

  “No, please keep my secrets,” I say, then mumble, “While you bring me the salmon and veggies. And a beer.”

  Fitz groans in frustration. “Now you’re tempting me with my favorite carb. Fine, I cave. Beer for me too.”

  “Coming right up, gentlemen.” Sam nods, then turns to Fitz. “Don’t forget—get us the Cup.”

  “I’m on it.”

  As Sam leaves, I drum my fingers on the bar. “So, hockey. How did you get into it?”

  “I thought hockey wasn’t your thing, Dean?”

  “It’s not, but I still want to know how you got started, what about it makes you tick.”

  “My dad was Canadian. Loved the sport. When he moved to San Diego, he couldn’t stay away from the rink. He took me there when I was four. Put me in skates and said, ‘Let’s see what you can do.’”

  “And was it love at first . . . blade?”

  Fitz smiles. “That’s how my mom tells the story. She didn’t want him to take me then, but he insisted, since apparently I insisted on learning at such a young age.”

  “Ah, that says so much about you too. Insistent from a young age.”

  “Persistent,” he corrects.

  “And you loved it?”

  He snaps his fingers. “Instalove. I had a ton of energy as a kid, and channeling it into skating was the perfect thing. It took focus but also intensity, and that’s what I had.”

  “And still have, I presume?”

  “Absolutely. And my dad was obsessed with hockey. He taught me some of my best moves. When to go for the goal and when to pull back. How to take a hit. And, of course, he taught me to always put the team first. That’s when the best players do their best work.”

  The server returns with our beers, and I lift mine. “To your dad.”

  Fitz clinks back. “To my dad.” He takes a drink, looking a little lost in thought.

  “You miss him still?”

  “From time to time. I think about him when I hit the ice though. I’m one of those guys who always does this,” he says, then taps his chest and points heavenward, “before each game.”

  It warms my heart, that kind of remembrance. “It’s good that you still honor him in that way.” We talk a little more about his family, then as the waiter brings our food, we thank him and dive in. In between bites, I return to something Fitz said.

  “So he was Canadian, and your mum is American?”

  “Yup. He moved from Vancouver to San Diego after he met her. Fell head over heels in love.”

  “Sounds like my dad when he met my mum. The head over heels bit, at least, as he tells it.”

  “Is she from Australia? You said she took off for there.”

  I shake my head. “No, she’s Swiss,” I say, then gesture to myself. “I look more like my father. Mum’s white, Dad’s black.”

  Fitz shrugs. “And you’re hot.”

  I laugh. “Thank you. And ditto.”

  As we eat, he glances around, taking in the decor—contemporary and sleek, a well-lit, modern pub in rich blues and greens.

  “I like this place. But not as much as The Magpie.”

  “You’re only saying that to get in my trousers,” I say between bites.

  A laugh bursts from him, and he shakes his head. “Don’t mean to be cocky, but I think you’re a sure thing. I said it because I meant it. I like what you’re doing with The Magpie. It feels unique—a little vintage, a little modern. Like you’ve made it your own.”

  I can’t help but grin. I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into that place. “I love that bar.”

  “I can tell. What made you decide to go for it?”

  “Maeve and I made a plan way back in uni. We always wanted to own our own business, someplace where we could have regulars and chat with them, get to know them, give them a place to come at the end of the day. And I’m chuffed we were able to do it.”

  “It takes a lot to pull something like that off,” Fitz says. “How long’s it been?”

  “One year. Before then, I was merely a bartender. But this is something of my own.”

  “Hell yeah,” Fitz says. “A man in charge of his own destiny.”

  When we’re done, several shouts rise from the pool tables in the back. The group that’s been playing there makes their way out, snaking through the bar.

  Fitz brushes one palm against the other. “All right, I believe you said you’d kick my ass at pool. Show me how great you are with that stick.”

  I can’t resist. “Isn’t that what you’re going to show me later?”

  He shakes his head in admiration. “I am. I absolutely am. But first, this—I challenge you to a game. And I think you’ll like the stakes.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  With a lift of his brow, he licks the corner of his lips, staring at me with a wicked intent in his gaze. “Winner picks the position.”

  A myriad of favorite ones flashes before me. “Well, then, when you put it that way, I better win.”

  I proceed to run the table, smacking ball after ball into the pocket, and destroy him. When I’ve annihilated the American athlete, I put the cue away, slide a hand around his neck, and preen. “Told you I’d win.”

  He bands his arm around my waist. “I’m pretty sure we both win here.”

  “Yes. I’d bet it all on that.”

  He brings his lips to mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. He whispers, all hoarse and smoky, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yes.” I give him a salacious wink. “Because I know exactly how I plan to use my winnings.”

  16

  Fitz

  I let the door of my room fall shut, the sound of it closing so damn satisfying. It signifies the shift into th
e rest of the evening—the thing I’ve wanted since I first set eyes on this guy two nights ago.

  Forty-eight hours.

  But in libido time, it’s eons. I’ve been wanting him every second of every day, wound up from the tension and rabid desire.

  I want him even more now after having dinner with him, getting to know him better. Talking with Dean is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. And that ease only fuels my lust.

  I want to grab him, pin him down, have my way with him. But I also know we have all night, and I plan to make it last.

  Inside the room, I kick off my shoes. He does the same.

  We look at each other, poised, knowing what’s coming. This is the calm before the storm, the moment of anticipation before the buzzer rings.

  We aren’t frenzied like we were earlier today. There isn’t that crazy collision like when we slammed into each other. But I can feel it in the air: a pulsing, a need.

  It’s palpable.

  Like the low beat of a song. Some sexy, dirty number that gets you in the mood.

  I’m already in the mood. Haven’t left the mood in forty-eight hours. Still, I grab my phone and click on a playlist, something I figure Dean will like—the kind of smoky, sexy music from artists he told me were among his favorites the night we met. Sam Smith, Daley, Leon Bridges. Sex music—plain and simple.

  “Good thing you have some music handy. Wasn’t sure I’d be able to get turned on otherwise,” he says, glancing at the bulge in his jeans, then to the matching one in mine.

  “Yeah, same here.”

  “Good tunes though.” His smoldering eyes lock onto mine.

  “Yeah, I thought you might like.” I’m not talking about the music.

  “I do like. I like it all.” Dean’s not talking about the music either.

  He’s standing a few feet away from me, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, giving me a little hint, a preview of those abs. I lean against the bureau, cross my arms, and rake my eyes over the man I’m going to fuck.

  I’m already an inferno just from looking at him. His jawline, his eyes, his lips. His body. “Take your shirt off,” I tell him, my voice a raw husk already.

  Grabbing the bottom, he tugs it up, revealing those cut abs, those firm pecs.

  I breathe out hard.

  Then harder still when the shirt goes up over his chest, his shoulders, then his head.

  My God, he’s so fucking gorgeous. All my resolve to take it slow flies out the window, and I close the distance to Dean in a heartbeat. I can’t not have my hands on him.

  I grab his face and taste his lips. “All night. I want you all night,” I say, my breath coming in a rush.

  “So have me, Fitz.”

  I swear my body is on fire. There is no corner of me not burning up for him. I angle my face, kissing his neck in the way that drives him crazy. He stretches, offering me more access.

  I take my time, giving him soft, tender kisses, coupled with scratches of my beard, till his murmurs turn to groans, the sounds so erotic that my cock strains against my fly. “You like that?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Mmm. Me too. So much,” I say, closing my eyes again, losing myself in the taste of him. My lips travel across his collarbone down to his pecs, where I flick my tongue then bite down on a nipple.

  Dean grunts out a dirty yes. “Do it again,” he urges.

  I smile, biting him, then moving to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment. I roam lower, falling to my knees as I kiss the ladder of his abs, making my way to the waistband of his jeans. I flick my tongue along his stomach, licking and sucking and driving him crazy.

  And myself too.

  I swear I’m tripping. I’m awash in sensation, in lust, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. On my knees, I unbutton his jeans, slide down the zipper, and jerk his boxer briefs and jeans down his thighs.

  His beautiful cock juts out, greeting me with a very eager hello. My mouth waters at the sight of him, the feel of him. I wrap a hand around the base and draw him between my lips, savoring the salty, sexy taste of him.

  Moaning around him.

  Getting drunk off him.

  “Noooooo,” he says. It has ten syllables, and he pushes my head away.

  With my hand still on his shaft, I look up, smirking as his cock twitches against my lips. “Your dick seems to say yes.”

  Dean’s hands curl around my head, locking me in place. “My dick is not allowed to make the decisions.”

  I smile at that intoxicating drop of liquid on the head of his cock. “Let me just make sure,” I say, darting out my tongue and licking the taste of his arousal.

  “Fuck . . . you,” he grunts.

  “Yes, that’s the plan.” I groan, my eyes rolling back in my head in pleasure as I kiss the crown, flicking my tongue over him. “Except I just don’t know if I can stop sucking your cock, Dean.”

  “You better find the will to stop,” he growls.

  Another lick. “And why’s that?” I know the answer, but my God, I am worked up. I am wound up. I am hot and horny and about to explode. And I want to know he’s going wild for me too, that he’s feeling the same kind of insanity.

  Dean jerks me up, yanking me up from the floor. “Because if you keep doing that with your wicked tongue and your naughty lips, I’m going to come in mere seconds. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  “Maybe not,” I say, unable to contain a grin.

  He grabs my chin, looking me hard in the eyes. “Now, do what I asked. Make it last with the way you fuck me. Make me go wild for you. And don’t you dare touch my cock again until I tell you to, because I am not firing early.”

  I might, though, if Dean keeps talking to me like that. I’m on edge already from the heat in his words, the command in them.

  “I’ll try to be good, but I make no promises,” I say with a crooked grin.

  “I don’t think you have it in you,” he teases as he grabs my jeans, unbuttons them, and slides a hand inside my boxers, covering my hard-on with his palm.

  I rock into his talented hand. “Fuck, babe. That’s so fucking good.”

  Dean strokes my cock as I shove off my clothes, savoring the feel of him touching me the whole damn time. Then he lets go and pushes off his jeans and briefs.

  When we’re both in nothing, we lunge for each other, tumbling to the bed, two tigers ready to devour. We kiss like we’re going to consume each other. Or maybe I’m already consumed as we slam our bodies together, and the sheer pleasure of contact with him is like an electrical charge surging across my skin.

  We go at it like that for a few minutes of bone-searing, pelvis-grinding kisses, but then he pushes me flat on my back and rolls on top of me, his cock rubbing next to mine. I grab his ass, so firm and strong, the promised land where I want to be tonight.

  He slides up on his knees so he’s straddling me, his palms flat on my chest, his stare as hot as the surface of Mercury. “Now listen to me. We’re going to fuck and fuck and fuck. I want it every way with you. Since I won the game, let me tell you what I’m going to do with my winnings.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m going to give you three choices, and you can feel free to pick your favorite,” he tells me, as he rocks his perfect fucking ass against my erection. “I can ride you, Fitz. Ride your fantastic fucking cock till we both come so hard we can’t think straight for days. Or I can get on my hands and knees for you, and you can fuck me to the edge of the bed. Or maybe, just maybe, you can throw me onto my back and drive into me till I beg for you to make me come.”

  I swallow roughly, trying to process those images, the filthy film of taking Dean in all those ways flicking before my eyes.

  But I can barely move. Barely speak.

  I can’t breathe.

  I don’t know how he does this. I think I’m in control, but that’s an illusion when he tops me with his words, his dirty mouth. He says the sexiest things in that English accent, and I can barely control myself.
I can’t contain this desire. Nor do I ever want to.

  I breathe out hard, wanting, needing, craving.

  “I want it all,” I rasp.

  “I know you do,” he says, rocking that beautiful body against me, showing me what he’ll do when he takes me all the way. Dean presses his chest against mine, and the contact, the exquisite contact, is some kind of erotic torture. So is choosing how to fuck him first. “But you better choose soon,” he whispers. “Or I’ll have to jack off in front of you, because I’m that aroused.”

  A breath shudders from me, comprised of a million tons of lust. This man is killing me.

  But I know what I want. I know how I want to have him. I need to see his gorgeous face as I bury my cock in his body.

  In one swift move, I push up, grab his hips, and flip him to his back. I pin his wrists above his head, bringing my face to his neck. And then I whisper in his ear, “Need to see your face when I drive into you, when I make you come so fucking hard you see stars.”

  Then I let go, grab the lube from the nightstand, and move between his legs after nudging them apart with my knees.

  He parks his hands behind his head. I take a moment to drink in the sight of his long, lean body, toned arms, and flat stomach.

  His perfect dick—long, thick, and goddamn delicious.

  But that’s not all.

  There’s so much to admire.

  His legs. Strong and muscled. His thighs. I drizzle lube onto my fingers, slide them along the length of his shaft, and watch him shudder as I move lower, then press a finger against his ass.

  The look on his face is nirvana. It’s blissful torture as I push inside, getting him ready—one finger. I pour on more lube then add two fingers, a third. My dick twitches, leaking at the tip.

  Dean’s eyes are closed, and he lets one hand glide down his chest, the other drifting to his shaft.

  “Uh-uh. Don’t touch. Can’t have you coming too soon. You want me to fuck you to the edge of pleasure, remember?”

  His eyes snap open, and he pushes up on his elbow, his gaze full of fiery intent. “Then get inside me now. I really can’t wait any longer before I take matters into my own hands.” He grabs the condom from the nightstand, opens it, and thrusts it at me.