Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1), Page 6

  “Babydoll.”

  Since we’re now a couple, I’m babydoll. So there was no misunderstanding, I clarified this is a true pet name.

  “You’ve been home all day,” he says. “Let’s go out. It’s good to be flexible.”

  His boyish grin doesn’t make a dent in my staying-in-tonight armor. I’ve gone with him to work out three times a week. That’s six times in two weeks. That’s more than I’ve done in my entire life. Plus, I’ve given up pasta. We never have dinner dates at Italian places, because his macro count rules his meal choices.

  I’m definitely flexible.

  I even look the other way when he gets more waxes than I do, so no hair will distract from the clean lines of his muscles. And let’s not forget the couple’s tanning date last week. The least romantic thing ever. I have zero desire for couple’s melanoma later on. I tipped my girl twenty dollars I couldn’t afford to not turn my bed on.

  I even decided to queue up Jack Ryan for tonight so that Finn won’t have to suffer through deciphering the Letterkenny jokes my friends and I favor. So really, I’ve made an awful lot of concessions to his vibe. He can give me this. The whole reason I wanted to stay in was because his gym overworked my body.

  “Well, I haven’t been home all day. I had tea with June.”

  To remind myself of the chemistry between us, I step between his legs and press my lips to his. The spark flares immediately. Maybe I shouldn’t complain about his regimen. At the competition, I discovered he wasn’t even close to being the craziest SuperFit guy. Shocking as it is to consider, some people are much weirder, obsessive, and bizarrely even more muscular.

  He squeezes my ass. “Okay, we’ll stay in,” he says.

  “I’m going to open new worlds for you tonight,” I promise.

  After all, he really has shown me things too—working out is horrendous, but all my lower back pain from hunching over the potter’s wheel is gone. I might not eat pasta with him, but who knew Japanese food was so good?

  Streaming shows are universal. We can enjoy this. It’s all about compromise, according to the relationship experts.

  “Get comfy,” I tell him. “It’s good to relax.”

  He picks my favorite spot on the right end of the sofa, but that’s okay. I’m flexible. I dim the lights and settle beside him with my legs stretched, feet propped on the coffee table. It’s cozy with his arm draped along the back of the couch. If I laser focus on the television, his hand tapping the cushion doesn’t bother me at all.

  Ten minutes in, when Jack is taking a row on the Potomac, Finn rises from the couch. “All that water is making me thirsty. Mind if I get something to drink?”

  I hit pause. “I’ll grab you one. There’s Vitamin Water in the fridge.” That’s another thing. My refrigerator is now stocked with healthy items. So again, he can give me this.

  “No, you stay there.” He beelines into the kitchen.

  When he returns, I press play, and he remains standing, guzzling water, pacing like a lion trapped in a cage.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” Finally, he resumes his seat, and Jack, the stoic hero, is back in suspenseful action.

  “Come on, man,” he says to the TV. “You know he’s the bad guy.”

  This type of commentary continues through the first half. Finn’s not only a talker during TV-watching, he’s a doer. He heads back to the kitchen. I pause again.

  “Just grabbing more water,” he calls out. “You could have let it play.”

  “You would have missed the clue.” As have I. I’m sure if I could hear what they were saying, I’d know what was going on.

  “I’m not a spy-thriller guy,” he says. “But if you like it, we can watch it.”

  “I’m not into it either.” The whole point is to find something we both enjoy doing. “What do you like to watch?’’

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.” He sits. “When I do, it’s more real-life action stuff that doesn’t follow a script. Bear Grylls. American Ninja Warrior. Ever seen Floor Is Lava?”

  “Nope.”

  I offer him the remote and Jack disappears from the screen. He’s replaced by a game show that involves teams of three making it through a wonky house to challenge their strength and endurance.

  “The floor isn’t actually lava,” he says.

  “Don’t spoil it,” I joke, but then immediately regret. He might actually think I believe the producers could somehow transport molten lava into the studio.

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “Sorry.”

  As the contestants leap and travel across the basement, Finn shouts animated play-by-play like an announcer. It’s giving me flashbacks to the gym. In episode four, they attempt to swing through a booby-trapped kitchen on steroids.

  “Think you could make it through that?” Finn asks. “We could try out for it.”

  My eye twitches. “Well, we’d need a third person.”

  “Maybe Austin. He seems like he’d be a good competitor,” Finn says.

  His phone chimes, saving me from responding. And really, I don’t have one.

  He types away for a few minutes and then says, “My buddy knows a guy who has a place available, if I want to take a look at it. Says it’s a hot property that’ll go fast.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  “Want to come with me? Give the feminine perspective.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure.”

  This is technically not going out. It’s a spontaneous house hunt, so he doesn’t end up with Austin. And there’s always the chance it will give me some ideas on areas for my own move. So far, repeated searches have returned nothing within my meager price range. Lucky for me, June hasn’t had any interested buyers yet, but that could change at any moment.

  We drive east, about fifteen minutes outside of Boulder, to a secluded community with a perfect view of the Flatirons. The GPS leads us down a tree-lined road to an expanse of land surrounding a miniature wood house with a tall glass front.

  I lean toward the windshield and gawk at the structure illuminated by the truck’s headlights. “It’s a tiny house.”

  “No way,” he says. “I’m not paying three thousand a month for a dollhouse.”

  “Three thousand?” I shriek.

  “Yeah. Mike said it’s an engineer who owns it. It’s actually a vacation rental, but they’ll do a long-term lease.”

  “Well, we should at least check it out? They can be spacious inside.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  We exit and follow the lighted pathway to a cozy covered porch. Finn stoops and retrieves a key concealed beneath a planter beside the front door. Inside, he flips on the lights and I’m in awe. It’s beautiful. But incredibly small. The camera angles must make them appear larger. Even with the high ceilings and glass wall, Finn dwarfs the interior.

  “Yeah, not happening,” he says, scanning the probably seven hundred square feet.

  I scoot around him to explore.

  “It’s so fascinating how they find hidden storage for all the things that you need.” I turn a handle on the wall and a dining table comes down. “See. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Babydoll, this is amazing. If you’re a munchkin.”

  Ugh. There’s no denying the lack of livable space, but he needs to be flexible enough to love this place. I mean, how fun would it be for me for my boyfriend to have a tiny house? Like a realtor, I point out all the positive aspects. Built-in bookshelf over the door. Storage beneath the couch cushions. No cords anywhere. They’ve made it luxurious and modern with dark hardwoods, and granite countertops in the minimalist kitchen.

  “I’m not composting a toilet,” he says, while I stand in the shower to show him a person can indeed fit. Sadly, there would never be shower sex, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

  I step out, losing hope I’ll change his mind. “I think that’s an incinerator toilet. It lights your...you know...on fire, in a totally s
afe way.”

  He gives me a flat look. “Light my shit on fire? Do I even need to say it?”

  “No.”

  I’m still determined, when we leave the bathroom. In the loft area is the bedroom. I scramble up the narrow steps and duck my head to climb in the bed. “There’s a skylight.”

  Finn peeks into the claustrophobic space. “Yeah, I’d have to stick my head out of it to fit in here.”

  This is true, but I’m not giving up. In a bit of a Houdini move, I roll off the bed and hunch my way out of the room. Downstairs, I brush past Finn and open a door that leads to an oversized concrete patio full of furniture. Bingo.

  “Wow, this is huge.” He follows me outside. “Your space is expanded outdoors.” I spread my arms. “Endless entertaining back here under the stars.”

  He looks up at the night sky and doesn’t seem dazzled by the multitude of twinkling dots.

  Short chunks of wood lie stacked next to the house, so I try another tactic. “There’s even a fire pit, for when it’s chilly. Don’t you want to live in harmony with nature?”

  “Not really. Is Austin’s place still available?”

  This can’t happen. Not to be negative, but what if there’s a breakup? Who gets Austin? “I don’t really think you want to room with Austin. He’s a chef, so there’s a constant temptation of delicious carbs.”

  “He seems laid-back, though. That’s important.”

  “He is, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Ya know?”

  “Why not?” He moves closer and caresses my arms. “You thinking about maybe us living together?” he asks.

  “Jesus, no.” Oops. Too adamant. His question has me off-kilter. I wish I’d paid more attention to Jack Ryan tracking down clues. Is Finn leaving me a set as well? Is he more into this than I am? When I mentally advance to the future with Finn, it’s blurry.

  “I mean, just feels a little soon, right?” I say, softly. “It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  He nods. “So if I move in with him, you won’t be hurt?”

  I worry at the corner of my lip. How do I answer his question? I don’t.

  “Funny you should say hurt.” Disregarding Henry’s internet relationship advice, I slip on a mask. “I’m really sore from the workout yesterday. Maybe you could kiss it better?”

  Nine

  “You’re making me horny,” Finn says.

  Success. My house of cards is still standing. Of course, guilt is now threatening to knock it down. But the primal way he’s looking at me is now making me horny.

  “Want to head back to my place?” I suggest.

  “No. Here. Outside.”

  The staccato rhythm of his words is caveman-esque and sends an ache straight to my core. I’ve never had sex in the open, and the prospect excites me. There’s a problem, though—this is someone else’s property. It doesn’t seem right to desecrate a stranger’s patio.

  Without uttering a word, Finn’s tempting lips talk me into it. It’s not like we’re trespassing. He has a key, and we’re not going to have sex in the tiny bed. We’re outside.

  “I’m in.”

  “Give me two minutes.” In an impressive display that Bear Grylls would envy, he tosses logs into the basket-shaped fire pit and finds everything needed to bring it to life.

  “See. You belong here.”

  He sits in an Adirondack chair, long legs spread. “Come here.” I move in front of him. “Show me where it hurts.”

  I point to my bicep and he leans in, soothing the tender muscle with his lips. This turns into a sensual game where he nurtures every spot I direct him—inner thigh, hip, stomach, shoulder.

  When I press a fingertip to my breast, he rubs the pad of his thumb against the stiff peak. “Are you going to be my dirty little slut tonight?”

  Weirdly, I’m not offended by his words. Who am I? It’s funny how you have no inkling what you like sexually until it’s presented to you by a gorgeous man who follows it up with, “Only mine, though. No one else gets the dirty slut.”

  I nod, mesmerized by the shadow of flames dancing across his chiseled face. “I want you to do what I say, and then I’ll make you come.”

  Oh, dear. What has been going on in the bedrooms of America while I was making pottery? I feel so cheated by the beta males of my past.

  “What do you want me to do?” Seems a fair question to ask. I’m learning to expect the unexpected with Finn.

  “Take your clothes off,” he says. “Let me see your body.”

  With lava—not real lava—coursing in my veins from his commanding tone, I tantalize him with an unhurried striptease. I’ve never stripped for a man before, but the roaring fire is making me hedonistic. Swaying to the imaginary music in my head, I inch my shirt up, exposing the skin beneath at a slow-moving pace. Once it’s off, I let it flutter to the ground, and memorize every detail of Finn’s reaction. The half grunt, the swipe of his tongue on his full lips, the rise of his chest.

  My shoes are toed off, and I slip my fingertips in the waistband of my joggers and shimmy them off. Joggers aren’t particularly sexy, but I feel sexy as I use them like a feather boa to finish my performance. When I’m done, I drop them with a wink.

  His hooded gaze flickers to the pile by my feet, then burns a path over my white bra and panties. “You look like an angel.”

  Sparks fly from the crackle of fire, casting him in a devilish light. “You look very wicked.”

  “I’m going to spank you for not putting your clothes on the table. You like being spanked?”

  It seems best to be truthful regarding something that involves pain. “I don’t know. I’ve never been spanked, but I liked Fifty Shades of Grey.” The, uh, movie. I didn’t quite get around to the book.

  “Turn around and bend over.”

  My pulse races. It’s like all my constraints have disappeared without the confines of walls. Outdoors, I’m free as the rustle of wind in the trees. It’s liberating.

  With hands braced on my knees, I wiggle my bottom, eager to experience some light BDSM. For science.

  I glance at him over my shoulder. “Ready when you are, Sir.”

  “Such a bad girl, showing off your thong.” He smacks my ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but not a gentle tap either.

  “Do you like that?” he asks, palming and massaging my cheek.

  “I’ll need another one to decide.”

  He gives me three more, each one stronger than the last. “You like it?”

  The spanking itself isn’t what’s turning me on, it’s the thrill of being naughty. “I like that you like it.”

  “You want to please me?”

  “Yes.” And I do. The unabashed desire he exudes for me is an aphrodisiac.

  His finger slips inside my panties. “You’re wet. Turn around.”

  My mouth waters as he lowers his zipper and eases his jeans and boxers past his hips. “Suck me, Chloe.”

  He wins bonus points for stealing the cushion from the chair next to him so I have a soft place to kneel. For the first time, I’m not intimidated about the prospect of giving a blowjob. I settle between his thighs ready to suck him like a porn star. He rubs the head of his cock against my lips, and I lick the tip, then swirl around the plump head. Once again, I focus on his balls, gently squeezing while I slide him into my mouth.

  “Mmm.” His fingers comb through my hair, until the loose strands are fisted in his hand. “I want to see you take all of me in your pretty mouth.”

  This is a daunting task, but a challenge I accept.

  “Fuck, your mouth is so hot.”

  I’m enjoying his aural as much as he’s enjoying my oral. I squeeze my thighs together and squirm from his raspy tone. There was a pro-tip I read in a magazine that said if you want to give an amazing blowjob he’ll never forget, to suck and swirl. Emboldened by his responses, I test it out. It works. His guttural groan spurs me to take him deeper.

  “Keep sucking,” he says. “You’re making me lose my mind.”
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  His hips rock with urgency as my mouth and hand work in tandem, gliding up and down his velvet thickness. Even though I’m the one on my knees, I feel powerful. Like a goddess beneath the moonlight, worshipping Finn’s dick.

  “I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” he husks, leaving my mouth with a pop.

  “Do it. Come in my mouth,” I urge, because out here, under a blanket of dark, I’m a brave temptress.

  “I want to come inside you.”

  Well, I can’t deny him that. “I want that too.”

  He rises and sheds his clothes. My skills must’ve been phenomenal, because he doesn’t bother to fold them before sheathing himself with a condom.

  I’m scooped up and carried onto the cool lawn. It’s prickly and hard, but Finn is harder. On hands and knees, I brace against the earth and wait for him to tilt my world off its axis. My panties are discarded and he bites each cheek, then trails his tongue up my spine. My eyes fall shut as he enters me on a rough stroke. I moan, loving the way he fills me, the way he grips my hips as he retreats, then pumps back in with a groan. My masquerade outfit is abandoned and I don’t hold back. I’m finding out who I am. This is me, unashamed, begging him to go faster. Harder.

  The sounds of our bodies slapping fill the night as we mate like wild animals. I can’t call it lovemaking. Lovemaking doesn’t really fit this raw urgency taking place. It’s not tender or slow. He hits that special spot deep inside, and my orgasm builds, needing to be released.

  “Ride me,” he says, flipping us over, and pulling me on top of him. “Work your cunt all over me.”

  My rolling hips falter a moment at the word he used, but I’ll decide later if I like it.

  With apparent night-vision skills, Finn unhooks my bra and tosses it. “You have perfect tits.” He cups my breasts. “I love the way they bounce.”

  As I circle and grind, seeking euphoria, he sits up, changing our position, and takes a nipple between his teeth. He’s so bendy. And good with his mouth.

  “Finn,” I murmur. “That feels so good.”

  He rocks up into me, sucking and biting the sensitive peaks. I’m so close. Every cell tingles like a live current. And then I’m on my back, legs over his shoulders. I claw at the grass.