3. June
THREE
Holy fudge factory,I should slap this guy. The audacity. The arrogance. The irresistible dimples on either side of his mouth.
With one very devious smirk, resulting in the aforementioned dimples, I’ve lost all train of thought and all I can do is stare straight at this giant of a man. I mean, come on. It isn’t fair to dangle this broad-shouldered dress shirt wearing hunk—who clearly works out for a living—right under my nose less than an hour after I caught my fiancé giving his best friend a blowie.
This has to be some sort of twilight zone I’ve stepped into. Guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me. He’s probably just being nice.
Wait…did he say how many orgasms?
As in more than one?
As in he’s willing to eat me for dinner until I come all over his face multiple times?
And he’s not worried about suffocating? Letting a woman down? That he’s not up to the task?
This man is either so full of crap he could fertilize the entire football field they just showed on TV, or he’s a magician who needs to be trapped in a cage and studied meticulously.
Orgasms?
I’m sorry I keep going back to that, but I’m half convinced I misheard him. Maybe I’m dreaming. Yeah. That’s it. I’m still in the church and I fell asleep before walking down the aisle. Paul is still getting ready and most definitely does not have a dick in his mouth and I’m not sitting in a bar in my wedding dress staring at this gorgeous muscled man like he’s the savior.
He could be my savior.
No. Bad June.
Ugh. I’m definitely not dreaming. Even I wouldn’t scold myself in my sleep.
“What’s the matter?” Muscles nudges me with his elbow. “You afraid of being devoured by the big bad wolf, Princess?”
Again with the princess. I should hate it. I should not engage. I absolutely shouldn’t be letting that word caress down my spine and make me tingle in places I didn’t know existed.
“I…” I trail off at the mischievous glint in his pale blue eyes.I’d love to have something intelligent to say, but I”ve got nothing. I’m a woman sitting at a bar in a wedding dress for Christ’s sake. I do not have it together.
And I really can’t tell. Is he flirting?
With me?
Clearly, I’m a mess.
Pretty sure if you looked up the definition of hot mess in the dictionary, you would find a picture of me sitting here in a dive bar with a crown on my head, nursing a raspberry and lime vodka soda.
He’s put together, freshly showered—if the strong smell of clove and sandalwood is any indication—and basically the total opposite of me. Not to mention drop dead gorgeous. His body is large and solid, making me feel dainty in a way Paul never did. His eyes, an aqua color reminding me of the docile waters of the Caribbean, draw me in and hold me in their magnetic pull.
It’s their fault I’m not hiking up my skirts and marching out of here.
I don’t even need to mention his smirk, complete with dimples, and how that affects me. Dang it. It’s their fault too.
Mr. Muscles can have anyone bouncing on his lap with a quirk of his brow and the promise of a good time. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me. There’s no way.
He leans forward, a lock of his light brown hair falling over one eye, and I fight the urge to sweep it back in place. Dang those romance novels. He’s looking at me expectantly, patiently waiting for an answer I’m not sure I have. But then I remember Paul, and how he unapologetically swallowed an integral part of his best friend.
I don’t owe him anything. Certainly not my fidelity.
I’m not mad at Paul. I mean, I am, but I’m not. He is who he is, and I feel bad that he had to hide a part of himself. I’m mad at myself for not seeing what was so plainly in front of me. For turning a blind eye to everything that was going on because I didn’t want to face reality and accept that my life wasn’t as perfect as what I thought.
I may have spent the last several years blind, but not anymore. June Jones is going to start living her life. Starting now.
And then I’ll stop referring to myself in third person.
“Until you can put your money where your mouth is.” I make a point to glance down to his parted lips, ignoring the flash of tongue between his teeth. With a tiny shiver rolling down my spine, my eyes flick back up to meet his. “I’m going to assume you’re all talk. And I’m not a princess.”
He takes the beer he never ordered from the bartender with a nod and points up and down my dress. “Could have fooled me with that getup. You look like you should be entertaining small children at a birthday party.”
“I was blowing up balloon animals earlier. You must have just missed it.”
“Shame. I bet you look real pretty blowing something up.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Take another sip of my drink. “Wouldn’t you like to find out,” I muse.
“I might like that.”
Oh my God, who am I right now?
I was wrong about the flirting. So wrong.
I lived with a man who preferred men and had no idea. My brain is broken. Either way, I’m sure he doesn’t want to sit here and talk to a sad girl in a wedding dress. There are plenty of fishies in the sea and most of them are out there on the dance floor wearing short skirts and low-cut tops.
They don’t have tiaras and broken dreams. Or at least if they do, they’re not wearing them.
I swish back around, swirling the tulle around my legs as I cross them, and resume staring at my drink. Muscles was a nice distraction from my evening of woe, but I’m not deluded enough to think he’s actually interested in me.
That is, until he taps me on the shoulder with his big manly hand and looks at me expectantly. And maybe almost like he’s surprised. That makes two of us.
“I’m sorry.” I blink at him a few times before continuing, “I wasn’t aware we were still having a conversation.”
He leans forward, cocking his head to the side as he watches me. I’m surrounded by his scent and I stop myself from closing my eyes and breathing him in. “We’re not done talking until I say we’re done talking. You got that, Princess?”
“Do I have a choice, Charming?”
“Charming, huh?” His lips quirk up in a smile. “I hate to break it to you, Princess, but there’s nothing charming about me. Especially not when you let me between those legs of yours.”
I’m glad I wasn’t taking another sip of my drink or I’d have choked. He’s forward.
And maybe I don’t hate it.
His brow quirks as his gaze travels the length of my ridiculous sparkly dress and returns to my face. I nearly swallow my tongue. There’s a light fluttery feeling in my belly that spreads like a wildfire beneath my skin. My heart pounds, my mouth dries, and my palms sweat.Just one simple look and I’m melting on this barstool.
“What makes you think I’m going to open anything for you?” I manage to choke out.
His eyes darken like the sky before a storm, and he lifts his beer from the bar and gives it a swirl before bringing it to his lips for a long swig. “I’ve got to ask, are you dressed for a special occasion?”
“It was laundry day.”
He snorts. “And that was the only thing clean?”
“Something like that.” I sigh, tapping my nails along the bar. “I was supposed to get married today. I found my fiancé sucking on the best man’s dick like it was half price Slurpee day at the 7/11.”
“Well, shit.”
Yeah. My thoughts exactly.