He looks at me oddly. “Are you a banker?”
“No, but I almost married a stockbroker whose life’s ambition was to have one of those cards.”
Dax shrugs, not seeming too concerned. “I know you wanted to fuck a penniless dirtbag from the wrong side of the tracks,” he says. “If it makes you feel any better, that’s really where I come from.” He clears his throat. “And I really do know how to weld.”
And how to fuck, my brain adds, and I wonder when my subconscious started talking like a sailor.
I also wonder why he’s belaboring his point about my assumptions. “Look, I’ll admit I might have judged the book by the cover,” I say slowly. “But you have to admit you did the same thing with me.”
I have him there. I can tell by the way his eyes narrow just a little, and I remember the conversation in the bar about grudge fucks. There’s a story behind that, but now’s not the time to push for it.
There’s something else I want.
I smooth my hands down my skirt, doing my best to regain my composure. “Let’s start again,” I say. “Thank you for the best sex of my life.”
He blinks, then starts to laugh so hard he grips the edge of the wine chiller to keep from doubling over.
“God, Lisa,” he says. “I’ve gotta hand it to you. You never say exactly what I expect you to.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or insult, but it seems like a good sign he’s laughing.
“Right,” I say, wishing this were a little less awkward. “I wanted to propose something to you. Not marriage,” I clarify when I see him blanch. “Or a relationship of any kind, I promise. This is strictly a no-strings-attached kind of thing.”
His eyes glint with intrigue, and I take a step closer, thinking this conversation would be easier if we each had a glass of that damn Pinot Noir in hand. As I reach for the handle of the wine chiller, Dax catches my hand and lifts it to his mouth.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re right—that was fucking amazing.”
I flush and try to mask how much that means to me. I’m used to people praising me for my skill at floral arranging or canapés or a hundred other things like that.
But not for crazyhawt monkey sex. He really looks like he means it.
I clear my throat and draw my hand back, grateful for the rush of cool air that hits me as I open the wine chiller. I take out the bottle and hold it up, pleased when he nods approval.
“Tell me where the glasses are,” he offers.
I direct him toward the hutch then busy myself opening the bottle and pouring it into a decanter. The whole thing feels so domestic. How do normal women conduct themselves after a casual hookup? I’ll have to ask my sister, Cassie.
When we’re finally seated back on the couch, I wait until he’s had his first sip to get down to business. “You enjoyed the sex?”
He sputters into his wineglass, then gives me a bemused nod. “Yes. Very much. Are we going to debrief now? Make a spreadsheet to highlight our favorite moves?”
I have to admit, I’d like to know. But I tamp back my curiosity in favor of getting to the point. “Here’s the thing,” I begin. “I slept with you because it seemed like the exact opposite of what my normal instincts would be. The opposite kind of guy, the opposite circumstances, the opposite type of sex.”
“Type of sex?”
“Type,” I repeat, not sure how much to spell out. “Lotus position on the couch with all our clothes still on, as opposed to—I don’t know—missionary position under the covers with a tasteful negligee cast aside at precisely the right moment.”
“Lotus position?” Dax grins. “Did you just turn our hot, spontaneous animal sex into something that sounds like a floral arrangement?”
“Exactly!” I smack the couch with the back of my hand, startling us both. He probably thinks I’m nuts, but he doesn’t move away.
“Look, the sex was amazing,” I say.
“You mentioned that.”
“I’d like to try a test,” I tell him. “Not an ‘are we compatible’ quiz from Cosmo or anything like that,” I clarify when I see his brow crease. “A test of my own instincts.”
“How do you mean?” He sounds dubious, but also interested. I take that as a good sign.
