Chapter 6

KIRK

Holy fucking Christ, this was the best sex I’ve ever had.

Seriously, I’ve been with more fucking women than I can count, but this goes beyond anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. More than just fucking beautiful, Emily has some moves when it comes to bedroom action.

“This was fucking amazing,” I tell her, still feeling short of breath. We’re both lying in her bed, side by side, while we stare at the ceiling in stunned silence, a silence I’ve just broke.

Turning to her, I run one hand down the side of her naked body, and I can’t help but smile. God, this woman’s perfect. The scent of her body is on the sheets and blankets, and I breathe in deeply, taking it all in. I could stay here, in this bed, forever… And that’s exactly the reason I need to get up right now.

You see, I’m not the kind of guy that goes out looking for a relationship. In fact, whenever someone says that dreadful word, I make sure to get as far away as possible from that person. A small army of women have tried (and failed) to get me in a relationship, and I’ve survived that trap so far; no matter how beautiful Emily is, I won’t ruin my perfect dating curriculum just for her.

And that’s why, no matter how much it costs, I need to do what I need to do.

Swinging my legs off the mattress, I sit up on the bed, stretching my back while I look for my clothes. They’re all scattered around the floor, like leaves swept away by the wind.

“Where are you going?” Emily asks me, sitting up on the bed by my side.

Is my mind playing tricks on me, or did I notice a note of disappointment in her voice? Yeah, that was disappointment…

Here we go.

“I have to get back to work,” I tell her, trying to act as casually as possible. Truth be told, I don’t really need to go back to the bar, even though we’re one man short, the rest of my employees are capable enough of handling the night shift all by themselves. But Emily still thinks I’m just a bartender, and I better keep that act up, at least for now.

Forcing myself up to my feet, I grab my boxer briefs from the floor; I start getting dressed under Emily’s attentive gaze, and I have to make an effort not to look back at her. I know that if we lock eyes again I won’t be able to ever leave this room. And the more I feel like this, the more I realize I need to leave.

“Oh,” she says, that note of disappointment once more in her voice. “Will we see each other again?” she asks me, and this time I can’t help myself; pulling up my pants, I turn to her, my eyes roaming up and down the curves of her naked body.

Gritting my teeth, I fight against my most primitive instincts and, somehow, I manage to resist the urge to simply climb up on the bed again and fuck her straight into oblivion… again.

Instead of telling her what I want to say (‘yes, we’ll definitely see each other again’), I push these thoughts out of my mind and, instead, I say something more cool and controlled. “Maybe we should keep things casual, don’t you think?”I ask her, readying myself to see her expression drop.

Whenever I tell a woman I want to take things casually, it’s always the same thing; disappointment turns into sadness, sadness turns into rage, and rage turns into… Well, it turns into fucking drama. So, yeah, I’m bracing for impact right now.

Except…

That doesn’t happen.

“Sounds perfect,” Emily laughs, throwing herself back on top of the mattress and smiling. “I love casual,” she purrs, and I have to take a step back to understand the way she's reacting. This is probably the first woman I’ve ever been with that didn’t react badly to the word ‘casual’.

Holy fuck.

A woman that thinks exactly like I do? Yeah, I wasn’t fucking expecting this. I think I might have struck gold with Emily, that much is for sure.

“You’re… fine with it?” I ask her, still feeling dumbfounded.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Sliding her naked body under the sheets, she yawns and covers her mouth with the back of one hand. “God, I’m tired,” she continues, almost as if she’s giving me a hint to get the fuck out of her apartment.

Oh, I like this girl.

“Yeah, get some rest,” I whisper and, before I can even stop myself, I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. What the hell? Why would I have to go and do something as lame as kissing her forehead? Yeah, I need to leave before Emily turns me into a complete fucking pansy.

“So…” I start to say as I head toward the bedroom door, “see you around?”

“See you around,” she nods, smiling at me, and I nod right back at her. I stand there for what feels like forever, one hand on the handle of the door, staring into her eyes as my heart pumps boiling blood into my veins.

Don’t leave, something inside me says, go back to bed. You both want it!

Oh, I want nothing more than to slide under the fucking sheets with her for round two… But I’ve never been in the habit of allowing instinct to triumph over logic, and I’m not going to let that happen now.

“Bye, Em,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, and open the door. As I walk out of her apartment, I feel my heart tighten up. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I want to take things casually… What if she doesn’t want to see me again?

“For fuck’s sake, you’re acting like a little kid,” I mutter under my breath, closing my jacket as I cross the street. “What are you? Fucking 12?”

Ten minutes later and I’m back in the bar. It’s already late, way past closing time, and there’s still a lot of cleaning to be done. Andrew was supposed to be in charge of that, but I completely forgot about updating the schedule.

Which is exactly what I need right now; as amped as I’m feeling, I doubt I’ll be able to get any sleep tonight.

EMILY

“Now, right! Right, right, left!”

My body sways from right to left automatically but, truth be said, I’m barely listening to what our dance instructor is saying. She’s shouting at the top of her lungs, dancing as if her life depends on it, but I simply can’t focus on what’s happening right in front of me.

Not after Mr. Wine Bar took me so well the other day.

I thought that dance class practice would help me get my mind off Wine Bar, but it’s actually the opposite: the more I move and sweat, the more I remember how it felt to be held in his arms.

Let’s be honest, okay? Moving and sweating were two of the things I did the most when I was alone with him in my apartment.

“Okay, that’s awesome, class!” Our dance teacher cries out, clapping her hands together. She’s a forty-year-old woman, but she doesn’t look older than thirty. Being a fit woman is almost the same as drinking from the fountain of youth, it seems. “See you next Thursday!” she continues, dismissing the class, and all of us amble down to the locker rooms.

I don’t talk with any of the other women as I undress and hit the showers; my brain is still too busy trying to process everything that happened between Kirk and I. In fact, I’m still so dazed by the freaky sex we had that I must look like a zombie right now. Thankfully, everyone seems exhausted from the strenuous workout we just had, and no one tries to talk with me.

“See you!” I wave to my dance teacher as I head out of the gym, my bag slung over my shoulder. Unlocking my car, I sit behind the steering wheel and rev up the engine. A few seconds later and I’m merging with the afternoon traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge, drumming my fingers against the wheel as I switch lanes. Taylor Swift beats through the car and I let myself wonder what it would be like to be Mrs. Kirk? Mr. and Mrs. WineBar? Having Wine Babies.

“Oh, crap,” I grumble as I see the never ending line of cars in front of me. The toll booth is just one mile ahead, and there’s already a long line of cars before it. I was hoping to get home early and drink some wine while I catch up with Netflix, but I guess I gotta scrap these plans. It’s going to take a while before I get back into the city.

Taylor is done with her song and fiddling with the radio, I try and search for some station that will keep my spirits up while I wait in line. Sighing heavily, I go through station after station, and I only stop when the sweet British accent of the Spice Girls is blaring through my speakers. I have a soft spot for the 90s, so what?

Singing along to Wannabe, I trail off when I notice a car on the lane next to mine; it’s a black Mercedes, one of these German cars that look so stylish and out of place at the same time. My gaze roams over the sleek curves of its hood, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the driver.

Square jaw, black Ray Bans, and an early stubble that looks just right. I keep on appreciating the guy in the Mercedes, and maybe I do it for too long; he notices that I’m looking at him, and he turns his face to look straight at me. Perching his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, we lock eyes. He smiles at me, his lips curling upward almost too casually, and I can’t help myself; I give him a slight nod, and then face forward as I feel my cheeks turning crimson. What? I’m not used to flirting when in the middle of a traffic jam. That’s the kind of thing that happens in movies, and romance novels, to be fair, not something I’m used to.

Sneaking a glance, I notice that the guy is still looking at me, his smart eyes making my blood boil. “Hey,” I mouth, waving at him before I can stop myself. He gives me a brief and playful salute, and then takes his sunglasses off.

“Hey,” he mouths right back at me, winking. Jesus, am I really chatting with a complete stranger? Seems like it, and more than just being a complete stranger… he’s a completely hot stranger.

I look straight ahead, trying to focus on the never ending line in front of me, but it’s as if my eyes are drawn to that black Mercedes. Slowly, I lock eyes with Mr. Whoever-He-Is (let’s call him Freeway, shall we?), and there’s still that smile on his face. Winking again, he then arches his eyebrows repeatedly in an exaggerated expression, and I can’t help myself; I end up laughing, the sound of my voice drowning out the Spice Girls.

“You’re crazy,” I mouth at him, and he just chuckles, running one hand through his sleek hair.

“Pull over,” he tells me silently, pointing at the side of the road. I just look at him, completely dumbfounded. Pull over where? In the middle of the freakin’ freeway?

“You’re outta your mind,” I try to tell him, but he just gestures at me again, telling me to pull over. “I must be goin’ crazy,” I mutter to myself as I flick the turn sign on, turning the wheel and driving until I’m on the side of the road. Cutting through the traffic, Freeway pulls his car right behind mine and then flashes me his lights, just like in those mob movies. Christ, what the hell am I doing? What if he’s a mugger?

Have you ever seen a mugger driving a Mercedes?, I ask myself, and that makes me relax a little bit. Besides, it isn’t like I’m at a risk of being murdered in the middle of a freeway, right? Right.

Holding my breath, I watch through the rearview mirror as the driver’s door of the Mercedes swings open, and a pair of black polished shoes hit the asphalt underneath it. Freeway is wearing dress pants and a black shirt and, I gotta say, he looks… delicious. Tall, handsome, and well-built; the perfect ingredients for a tasty recipe.

“Okay,” I tell myself as I reach for the handle on my door, “let’s do this.”