She continued, "It's incredible what you do. But I'm happier when I don't think about the precise details of cutting into people's bodies and fixing their organs. I don't think I could handle seeing the photos. It's bad enough when people post their cuts and bruises or IVs on Facebook." She coughed, gagged a bit. "Sorry. Thinking about that is too much for me."
"That's fair. Expected, even. It didn't occur to me you'd want to talk surgery."
She picked up the chocolate ice cream again. "I get what you're doing here but we can still talk sports. It's fine, Cal. Everyone does it."
I wasn't certain whether my mind was leading me to these conclusions or Stella was implying that most of the men she dated kept the conversation confined to her profession. Maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe she was suggestingshekept the conversation confined to her profession.
"Is that what they do with you?" I asked, wading right into that murk. "They test you, right? They doubt your bona fides so they interrogate you and then find out you're smarter than a snake charmer. Is that how it goes?"
Her lips twisted into a fake scowl and she glanced up at the ceiling. "Not sure how I feel about being compared to a snake charmer."
"I'm taking your deflection as agreement," I replied.
Stella ran her spoon around the inner edge of the cup, scooping up the melted ice cream. "I like this one but that one's good too." She jabbed the spoon in my direction. She was finished with the last leg of our conversation. Whatever it was, it was over. "It's early for raspberries. Right? Yeah. Raspberries come out in the summer. But I guess it doesn't matter. They were probably frozen or shipped in from somewhere." She shrugged, repeating the process. "Still good."
I pushed the black raspberry toward her. "All yours."
She nibbled each flavor with tiny spoonfuls followed by thoughtful pauses and commentary, but the only thing I could see was her mouth. The way it curved into a smile or a pout, the way her lips closed around the spoon or folded together, the way I imagined her lips on my cock.
Yeah, I couldn't think about that right now. Not one bit. We weren't talking about sports or why it was bad to be good, and me thinking about cocksucking was the last thing that should've been on my mind.
But there it was, flashing like an oasis in the desert. And I lived in a blowjob desert.
I cleared my throat, asking, "Are you ready for your trip to Los Angeles?"
She frowned. "I haven't packed. I'm a last-minute packer. Everything in, hope for the best. If I screw it up, there will be shops in California. But it would be good to get that done tonight. Knowing my current client list, I'll wake up with my phone on fire because five of them failed their drug tests and I'll have to buy a toothbrush from the hotel gift shop."
"I shouldn't keep you." I glanced at my watch but didn't register the time. It didn't matter. "It's getting late," I said. "Let me take you home."
Stella slowly dragged the spoon from between her lips and then her tongue shot out, tracing the plastic edges. I'd challenge any red-blooded, heterosexual man to watch a show like this one and not find himself at half-mast.
"What if I'd rather," she started, torturing me with another bite of ice cream, "walk for a bit? With you."
I leaned back in my seat, surprised that option was on the table. Shocked. The entire evening was a sampler pack of mixed signals. "I'm always up for a walk around Beacon Hill but I don't want to be to blame for any hotel gift shop purchases."
She considered this, nodding. Her spoon hovered over the duo of ice creams before diving for the remaining portion of creamy purple. One taste of the black raspberry had her eyes fluttering and a low hum of pleasure rumbling in her throat. Torture. Plain fucking torture. She licked her spoon again and I damn near snatched it out of her hand and threw it across the store.
She twirled her spoon in my direction as if she was casting a spell. "Use your words, Cal. I don't speak man-growl."
My gaze was glued to her mouth. If there was anything else in the world to see, I was unaware.
"That was another one of those rumbly-grumbly not-words situations," she said.
The responsible, Army-precise side of me desperately wanted to walk her home, leave her at the door, and allow her to prepare for her business trip. The other side of me, the one concerned with dragging her lower lip between my teeth while my hand slipped under her panties, desperately wanted to get her behind closed doors.
"I can promise you one thing," I said.
"Just one?" Stella asked, a skeptical scowl on her face. "You seem like a multiple promises kind of man. I feel like you've already promised me a boatload of things. Actually, where is my pony?"
I shook my head once. "I expect I'll give you more satisfaction than that ice cream."
She glanced at the cups before her, her lips pursed. She scooped up another bite. The chocolate-pretzel-chaos flavor this time. She damn near sucked the shine off that spoon before asking, "Is that so?"
There was a weight associated with articulating all the things I wanted with Stella. It piled up around us like a drop in the air pressure. My shoulders were bunched tight and my cock was heavy, and I was working hard at keeping cool even when I wanted her to tell me she wanted it too. That was all I needed to hear. Then I'd toss her over my shoulder, hustle her home, and make good on those promises.
"I think you know it is," I said.
Stella smiled down at her spoon. I was really fucking jealous of that plastic. "Where do you come up with all these dirty thoughts?"
