“Not like that. No,” I admit quietly and take my beer back from him. I’m still buzzing from his compliment, and I’m eager to reciprocate. “I appreciate things about you too, Bates. Which probably goes without saying — I mean, why else would I ask you to do an intimate thing like putting your penis in my vagina?”
Bates almost chokes on his beer but recovers well, wiping his mouth and then rubbing his bearded chin while he regains his composure. “You’re really something else, you know that?”
I try not to sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
He smiles. Bright and unfaked, and not at all mocking.
And I don’t know why.
It’s completely out of context when I’m so embarrassingly awkward. I don’t know where to look, but I quickly settle for anywhere that’s not his face.
I know what I just said was stupid.Everyoneknows you don’t say penis and vagina when you’re trying to be sexy. You say cock and pussy. Or if you’re too wholesome for that shit, maybe ding-dong and hoo-ha, but never,everpenis and vagina. EvenIknow that. I just couldn’t stop it from coming out of my mouth before it was already said.
Half-wincing, I risk a glance at his face. He’s still smiling at me. As if my idiotic choice of wording was perfectly acceptable and didn’t just make him nearly spit his beer like a fountain. As if he’s genuinely just having an enjoyable time. Withme.
I rest my cheek on my palm and smile back. “I like you.”
For the first time since we met, Bates looks a little flustered. He’s even blushing a bit. Shyness looks quite odd on such a burly, tattooed, and powerful-looking man, but it’s also super endearing. I press my lips together to keep from smiling too broadly. It’s hard to believe I’ve been able to make a man like this blush. It kind of makes me want to say penis and vagina a whole lot more.
Don’t do it, Lana.Just… settle down and get this shit back on track. You know the goal.Get there via the most efficient means possible, before you can screw up and lose the guy before he’s been fully reeled in.
I clear my throat. “So… do you want to move this upstairs?” I ask as boldly as a girl with five shots and one and one-third beers in her belly.
“Soon,” Bates says, leaning back. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Oh. The question.
“Which question was that?” I ask, stalling.
“What happened to make you slam down those shots?”
“Right.” Nodding, I glance around the bar. The majority of patrons are men. Business execs, by the looks of them. Bates is wearing a tidy button-down shirt, but he doesn’t share the same vibe as them at all. He looks as if he’d be more at home covered in sweat and dirt and grease. His collar is blue, not white.
I drop my gaze to his hands. They’re clean, but they’re a workingman’s hands. His nails are tidy and short, and his cuticles contain traces of dark matter that no amount of scrubbing could ever remove. They tell the tale of a rugged lifestyle. I bet his palms are weathered and rough-looking too — with calluses, no doubt. The kind that’d produce just the right amount of friction if he dragged them along my skin…
Whoa.
I am finding out all sorts of things about myself tonight.
I think maybe my life has been filled with the wrong people, because nobody has provoked the kind of thoughts in me that this man does —yayfor exposing myself to new experiences.
“Bates, what kind of work do you do?”
“All sorts. Mechanical mainly. Big equipment. You still haven’t answered my question. Are you intentionally delaying and trying to deflect so you won’t have to answer?”
“Yes, and no. I was delaying, but then your hands distracted me,and I wanted to know why they’re so wonderfully broken in.”
Bates’ eyebrows dip, and he drops his gaze to his hands. I crane my neck to see his open palms as he studies them. They’re just as I’d imagined.
He hides them under the table and meets my eyes. “So, what happened? I’m more curious than ever.”
I stretch my neck a little further, trying to see what he’s hiding. “Are you removing your hands from this conversation tokeep distractions to a minimum? Or are you using them as an added incentive to make me spit out the humiliating details of my evening more quickly?”
He gives me a strange sideways glance. “How would they be an incentive?”
“Obviously, I like the look of them, so you’re depriving me until I cough up the details you’re after. Once I’ve responded to your satisfaction, their return will be my reward.”
He watches me for a moment as if he’s waiting for something, but then he leans back. “You’re not joking?”
