I snort again, it’s not at all attractive. “That’s what they all say.” I’m already halfway turned toward him, so I finish thecircle, standing so I’m facing him square-on. It’s him for sure, because as far as I can tell, he’s the only other person here.
Sitting on the couch, curled around a beautiful acoustic guitar, is an even more beautiful man who looks like the guitar was made for him, or he for it, or they were both sculpted together as one. And he’s dressed like a fucking ghost from the old arcade game, Pac-Man, his head poking out the top of a blue fabric ghost costume.
I suck my cheek into my mouth to keep from swooning. Yes, swooning. I’m a strong, independent, badass bitch, and I don’t fucking swoon. Not even for delicious men who can play my favorite instrument. Especially when he’s dressed like a goddamn video game character.
But sweet, holy mother of music, if he can sing, I’m stripping naked right here, right now. I don’t give a shit who might see.
Mr. Yum looks up at me, giving me a perfect line of sight to his dreamy green eyes. But are they really green? Maybe gray? The temptation to close the distance to figure out what color they actually are is strong. But I’m half afraid if I get too close, I’ll do something I regret. Like flash my tits at him or stick my tongue down his throat.
He smiles at me in a way that suggests he might not mind if that’s exactly what I did. It’s not a perfect smile, either. He’s missing a front tooth, his lips aren’t all-the-way straight, nor are they shaped like the perfect Cupid’s bow. He’s got a small scar along his jaw that makes me itch with an urge to trace my finger over the silvery white jagged line. Or my tongue.
Or my pussy. Whatever. I’m not picky.
“Sit.” He jerks his head at the couch facing the one he’s sitting on.
My body bristles because who doesn’t love being told what to do? I eye the couch, then the brown-haired, broad-shouldered Pac-Man ghost, then the couch again.
“I don’t bite.” He winks. “I mean.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Not unless you want me to, of course.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
His eyes widen then his brows scrunch together in confusion.
“I dunno who has done... what... there.” I gesture at the couch with both hands before perching my ass on the arm, which, given my plus size, the fact I’m in a giant, bright yellow, off-the-shoulder ballgown and the fact I have an enormous cardboard taco on my head, is a feat in itself.
“Oh. Right.” He moves his fingers on the strings, enough to make the slightest plunking noise, but not enough for it to be considered melodic. “Well, when I came in here there were two guys fucking right there on that armrest where you’re sitting.”
Guy’s a joker.
Unfortunately, that’s my kink.
I need to find his flaws. And fast.
Because if I stay here much longer, staring at all the good stuff, I might act on it.
He licks his lips.
Strike the ‘might.’
That’s a definite, absolute affirmative.
Quick. Think of turn offs.
After a beat, I purse my lips and fold my arms. Like some kind of Wonder Woman shield will help deflect the come-fuck-me vibes he’s putting out into the room. “What do you drive?”
He smirks. “A Rivian R1T.”
There it is. “So, a big dick energy Tesla with an exhaust pipe?”
“Asafebig dick at least.” He stops strumming and points at me. “And don’t forget the slide-out kitchen.”
My eyes hurt once I’m done giving him an eye roll. “Of course you pimped it out.”
He winks at me, and it sends some kind of signal to my crotch that makes me clench. “Just say the word, I can show you mybed-mounted roof top tent right now.” The pride in his voice makes me smile.
Boys and their fucking toys.
Neither of us mention the fact I’d probably break the bed of his truck with my fat ass, and I don’t plan to shatter his fantasy.
