You Can Follow Me
The second Kara opened the door to the bar, testosterone hit her like an alpha male freight train.
I want to be on an alpha male freight train. She tried not to let the thought show on her face.
She was there for one reason, and one reason only. Kara had purposefully booked a hotel on Coronado Island because she knew the Naval base was here, she had googled Navy SEAL bars, and she had dropped off her luggage and headed out immediately to fulfill her fantasy.
She was thirty. She was still single. She was horny as fuck. And she was going to fuck a SEAL tonight.
She hadn’t expected to be so intimidated by the pheromones in the bar. Hell, she hadn’t expected there to be obvious pheromones, period. Breathing it in, Kara squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and ignored the pragmatic, slightly worried voice in her head that said, get the hell out of here, Kara, before you end up sucking off more than you can swallow. She ignored the male laughter coming from somewhere behind her, and hopped on a stool at the bar.
A woman with short blue hair and tattoos covering her arms turned and saw her. The bartender looked Kara over, clearly made a judgement, and called down the bar to a shaggy-haired, lanky dude who was stacking glasses, “We’ve got another one.”
“Another what?” Kara asked, wiggling her hips so she could drag her tight black dress back over her thighs.
The woman laughed. “This is a SEAL bar, but then you knew that already, didn’t you?” She didn’t wait for Kara to respond. “Warning—things here can get intense. So if you’re looking for a hero and a romance, try Wally’s—it’s got your usual Navy guys there.”
“Fuck that. Can I get a Corona with three slices of lime?”
The woman grinned. “I like you. What’s your name?”
“Kara.”
“Sally. You here for a while, or just passing through?”
“Just until Monday.”
“Two days. Woman like you, you should be able to accomplish what you came here to do in that time.”
Kara hoped so. She felt eyes on her, but when she turned to look, no one was looking back.
Sally passed Kara her Corona, watching with one eyebrow raised as Kara floated one lime slice after another.
“So. Why SEALs?” Sally asked.
Kara took a swig of her Corona. The lime overpowered the bland beer, just the way she liked. She shrugged.
“Why not?”
“Hmm.” But before the bartender could push, another patron waved her over, leaving Kara to her thoughts.
She wasn’t a hundred percent sure when the “fuck a Navy SEAL” idea first came to her. Ever since she’d started having sex, she’d made her way through various male subcultures, archetypes, and job titles. There was the teenage dirty hipster musician phase, the college rumpled academic phase (god, those philosophy grad students were tedious), the post-college rodeo cowboy rebellion phase (somehow, even the young ones had bald spots they hid with their Stetsons,and boy, was that a letdown), the fireman phase (apparently being a hero made you lazy as fuck in bed), and a very short-lived i-banker phase (until she decided that, as nice as it was for someone else to pay for dinner and drinks, listening to them bitch about the stock market wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be worth it). And, of course, the academia redux—and look how well that had gone.
So why military guys? And SEALs, specifically? No one among her family and friends had joined the military. Had she imprinted on the romance novels she read—the ones she’d hid from the highbrow authors and literary hopefuls that made up her undergrad and grad school life? Had she always unconsciously yearned for the impossible hero who’d keep her safe? Or was there something else that made her body go tight and hot when she saw a man in uniform?
She wasn’t looking for someone to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the sunset. She had twice-married, twice-divorced parents and a mother who warned her that “love is a media-created fantasy for the uneducated, sweetie,” when she’d first discovered her daughter reading Harlequins and then promptly replaced them with American Psycho, Fight Club, the King James Bible, and other books about horrible men. She had a group of friends with relationship horror stories and the inexplicable emotionally masochistic natures that meant they kept trying. Maybe pre-New York Kara wanted romance, but post-New York Kara wanted casual, expectation-free fucking.
Whatever she was looking for, she hadn’t found.
Yet.
When she’d loaded up her hatchback and fled New York for wider, more open spaces, stopping in various small towns and medium-sized cities for a few days to a few weeks, she hadn’t formally decided to add various military dudes to her proverbial little black book. It just turned out that, when she sat in local bars and swiped through matches, she inevitably swiped right on the guys standing in a uniform. (Not the white savior ones standing in a desert surrounded by brown children; she had some limits.) And sometimes they’d swipe right back, and sometimes they’d come meet her at whatever bar, and they’d play pool (she’d lose) or darts (she’d win) and a few beers and some flirting led to more drinks and some sort of action or other.
It was fun.
It was empty.
It was “expanding her horizons.”
Sex was sex was sex, apparently.
It was enough.
She wanted more.
Maybe a SEAL was that more, the epitome of testosterone and alpha male inclinations she wanted in bed, even if she didn’t quite want to admit it to herself. And not just that. As objectifying and squicky as it was to choose partners based on the toughness of their careers, a SEAL would be the ultimate challenge, wouldn’t it? Proof that she could do, get, and handle anyone? And that she finally didn’t give a fuck what anyone else thought of her? If everyone back in New York thought she was a soulless slut, why not enjoy it?
Whatever.
She could overanalyze her motivations and choices all night. It wasn’t going to get her what she wanted, which was to fuck the epitome of military prowess.
Feeling weighed down by the testosterone, Kara swallowed and turned.
She counted three guys—a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead, like the male version of the witches of Eastwick—gathered around a table covered in beer cans. Mostly Bud, some Coors and Miller scattered throughout. They were flirting with two beautiful, model-thin women. Part of Kara automatically wanted to leave; with her frizzy-curly red hair and not-at-all-svelte body, there was no way she could compete.
No. She’d worked hard to get over her insecurities when it came to putting herself out there. New York Kara, who never spoke up in grad seminars and didn’t defend herself against the rumors and accusations, was dead and buried. She’d promised herself she’d do what she wanted from now on. She’d always try. She’d put it all out there—why else was she wearing this unnecessarily fancy little black dress when she’d rather be in frayed shorts and a tee? And if she struck out tonight, she struck out.
She wasn’t going to let herself strike out.
She turned back to Sally and the other bartender—the guy was named Jake—and chatted for a while, pretending to ignore the action happening behind her.
And then the jukebox powered on, and Zac Brown Band’s “Chicken Fried” filled the bar.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like the song, but it didn’t fit her mood, and if she didn’t change things up, it was going to be a night of pop country hits and god knew what else.
Hopping back off the bar stool, she strode to the old jukebox—an obvious relic from the nineties—trying to seem normal and not like she was about to faint.
They were all hot, body-wise. Not inhumanly beautiful like magazine cover models, but that made things easier. Made them more real. Made this more real.
Maybe that wasn’t easier.
Before she could chicken out, she pulled a credit card out of her purse and started perusing the options.
Sure enough, the next song cued up was “Sweet Caroline.” She shook her head and flipped through albums.
Someone stood behind her, not touching, but close. She didn’t look, but she could smell him, and god he smelled good. Spicy and warm.
Fuckingpheromones. Amazing.
“You know, you don’t automatically get music privileges,” he said, voice deep and smooth. It wove around her like silk, made her want to stretch and let her hair out of her high ponytail.
Instead, she said, “You know, you aren’t supposed to play ‘Sweet Caroline’ until the bar’s closing.”
“Is that right? Where’d you learn that, college? Grad school?”
Well, that landed on target. But he seemed amused, not contemptuous.
She raised her shoulders and dropped them, aware that her shrug exposed even more thigh. Good.
“Yup.”
“Where?”
“Berkeley, then Columbia.”
“Smart girl.” He sounded impressed, not surprised. “So, what song are you choosing that’s going to disrupt our bar?”
“Still deciding.”
“Tell you what. You can choose two songs, as long as I get two vetos.”
“Hmmm,” she pretended to consider. “How about three songs and one veto?”
He laughed, and the sound sent vibrations down her back. She was tempted to turn around and see him, but the anticipation was more fun.
“You drive a hard bargain. Okay, smart girl, let’s see what you’ve got.”
He brushed her back with his chest before moving to her side. She could see broad shoulders and ripped muscles out the corner of her eye.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to look.
Fuck.There went her “not cover model gorgeous” theory.
Dark brown hair, short and tight to his scalp. Deep brown eyes framed by an unfair number of eyelashes. His face was more rugged than sculpted, except his lips, which had obviously been designed by some long-dead Italian artist.
That perfect mouth smiled. She could feel him looking her over, and if she wasn’t imagining things, his eyes darkened further.
He was in her space, but not crowding it. Heat and energy and so much sex appeal pulsed off him, she had to resist grabbing his ass and hauling him to her.
Taking a deep breath, she pointed to the first song. “‘Add It Up’ by the Violent Femmes?”
“Good choice.” He pressed in the letter number combo. “What’s next?”
She flipped more, then landed on something and laughed. He’d hate it.
“‘Harder to Breathe’ by Maroon Five.”
“Veto.”
“You sure you want to use your veto this early?”
He glanced back at the duo behind him. “Unless you want to piss these guys off, I’d skip it.”
She inhaled sharply, speaking before she could stop herself. “Maybe I want to see what you all will do when you’re pushed.”
“Don’t like to be pushed, daring girl. We like to do the pushing.”
Kara felt her cheeks go warm at the implication.
“Do you like to be pushed?” he asked, seeming serious.
Her thighs clenched. She flipped her ponytail. “Maybe.”
“Hmm.” The sound was almost a growl as he studied her face.
Her cheeks had gone from warm to blistering hot. Before she stumbled across a sexual landmine, she changed the subject.
“How about Marcy Playground?”
He watched her for a moment, as if he were considering digging deeper into his question, but must have decided to let it go, because he asked, “Which song?”
She’d show him daring. Kara winked. “Which song do you think?”
He raised his eyebrows, like he thought she was just playing games, but when she didn’t relent, his gaze turned admiring.
Although he didn’t speak, she knew that when he added the song to her queue, the brush of his hand against hers was intentional. And holy shit. Kara had never really considered hands brushing to be particularly exciting or noteworthy or illicit, but just the faint hint of calluses on his fingers from the light touch singed her, like she’d stuck her own into an electric socket. Heat spread everywhere. Her whole face was on fire. She felt disoriented, almost dizzy. If she was prone to flights of fancy, she’d think that the floor had rotated beneath her feet.
Fortunately, she wasn’t. But damn, this guy was potent.
“What’s next?”
“Huh?”
He chuckled. The sound was like velvet against her skin.
“What song’s next, distracted girl?”
Oh, she hadn’t planned that far ahead.
“Maybe I want it to be a surprise.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Tell me.”
Shivers wracked her. He was a one-man weather machine, wasn’t he?
“Why don’t you make me?” she countered.
His eyes darkened, but all he did was “hmm” again. Another sexual landmine, and even though Kara had placed it between them, she wasn’t sure she wanted to set it off. She glanced away and flipped through the options to give herself time. His eyes were on her. Like kismet, she saw the perfect album. She’d never known a bar to carry Metric in the jukebox, but by some miracle, this one did.
Instead of telling him, she keyed in the combination.
He looked at the code, then the song, then back at Kara.
She tilted her head, shrugging. “You already used your veto.”
He shrugged, his shirt riding up, exposing a line of tan, tight skin. He was intentionally mimicking her, wasn’t he?
“Risky, but I guess we’ll see how it goes.”
She laughed, but he didn’t, just continued to watch her. And once again, even though Kara wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, she could feel herself drowning in his dark eyes.
“Conor,” one of his friends called. “Leave the woman alone and get your ass back over here. We want to hear the story about Vegas again.”
Disappointment flooded her, but she didn’t show it to him.
Oh well.
“Nice to meet you, Conor.”
She turned to go.
“Wait.”
He grabbed her wrist and tugged her back to him. It was a forward-as-hell move from a stranger and should’ve pissed her off. Instead, her thighs clenched—again. It was something about the presumption, the pushiness of the move, the dominance, the implied ownership. So subtle but it felt good. The thigh clench shouldn’t have been obvious, but something must’ve given her away, because he blinked and his lips curved. The moment stretched between them, his big hand still holding her wrist, gentle but unyielding.
Reluctantly, she pulled free. He released her immediately.
“You know my name. I don’t get yours?” he asked.
She could use a stupid line like, come find me and find out, but she was done with silly games.
“Kara.”
“Kara.” His lips formed the word, drawing out the two syllables. She swallowed. His eyes grew darker. “What brings you to Coronado? You aren’t from here.”
She shrugged, looking away. Sex was one thing, baring her secrets was off the table.
After a moment, he nodded, seeming disappointed. “I hope you chose well, Kara.”
“Or what?”
He grinned but said nothing and left her where she stood.
Ugh.She walked back to the bar and pretended she couldn’t feel him still watching her, thrilled and scared and disappointed and wanting so immediately and so much it shocked her.
“Well?” Sally raised an eyebrow.
Kara shrugged. “Struck out.”
“Huh.” Sally passed her another Corona and a glass full of lime wedges. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”
The first two songs played, and she no longer felt his eyes on her back. She glanced over, and he was immersed in conversation with his two friends. The blond was built like a heavy-weight wrestler, the redhead was tall and tan, towering over the other two, even seated. Before Conor could catch her, she glanced away.
What-the-fuck-ever.
She was about to give up and go back to her hotel—maybe tomorrow night would be better, maybe she’d aimed too high—when the third song clicked on.
“Gold Guns Girls” by Metric was dirty and sexy and angry and loud. And it seemed like no one but Sally had heard it before.
“Well, that’s definitely a choice,” commented Sally. “Looks like someone’s noticed.”
Kara turned her head. Conor was staring across the bar at her, not smiling, not anything, face unreadable. That fanciful nonsense feeling, the one where the floor spun underneath her barstool, hit her again. She was suddenly terrified, and she wasn’t sure why. She didn’t know why it seemed like something monumental was about to happen.
Smart girl.
Daring girl.
Distracted girl.
Kara snorted. More like overly-imaginative girl. Because it felt like she could either walk out now and go on with her life, totally normal and fine, or she could stay—but if she did, she was taking a fork in the road and would never be able to double back. She’d only felt this way once before—when Christopher Johnathan kissed her in his office, surrounded by piles of his own books, right before she’d decided to kiss him back. That was a fork in the road she wished she’d never taken. Based off that, she should leave. A smart girl would leave.
But as she began to reach into her wallet to pay for her drinks, Conor rose from his chair, licking his lips.
She wasn’t going anywhere.
He made his way over to her. He lacked that cowboy swagger she’d gotten used to and then grown to hate a few months ago, but made up for it with purposeful steps and a gaze that narrowed on her like a missile.
“Good luck,” Sally said to her as he reached them.
To Conor: “What can I get you?”
“Not drinking,” Conor said, but his eyes were on Kara. He eyed her Corona.
“Imported? Fancy.”
Kara rolled her eyes. “Oh, you have no idea how fancy I can get.”
“I think I have a pretty good idea.”
Sure he did.
“Shoot.”
He stroked his chin, fake pondering.
“Let’s see—from that dress, I’m guessing first dates mean a wine bar and a shared charcuterie plate. You’re a tourist and are shockingly fascinated by everything, so I’d bet vacations are usually to ski towns or trekking through Asia. From the way you talk, you’re either a writer, an artist, or a teacher. You’re from LA or New York, and even though you tell yourself you hate ‘the city,’ you’ll never leave. From the way you avoid questions, my hunch is you’re running from something. From the way you flirted with me, I hope you’re single. And based on your music choices, I’d say it’s not because you can’t find someone, but because you did, and he burned you—bad.”
“You found me on Facebook, didn’t you?” Kara asked, only half kidding. He’d read her mind, her interests, her desires, even part of her backstory—and she didn’t like it.
She didn’t.
“Anyway, you were close, but wrong,” she said. “I used to live in LA and New York; right now I live nowhere.”
At that, something flashed in Conor’s eyes, only to disappear.
“So, passing through?”
Kara nodded. “Just passing through.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged, her timeline suddenly becoming flexible.
That same look —a squinting of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw—slid over his face, there, then gone.
“Let’s go get fro-yo,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.
Kara laughed. “Do people still eat fro-yo?”
He copied her shrug, and she stared transfixed at his shoulders for a second. They were just so…shouldery.
“No idea. I’ve never had it, but I figure you can introduce me,” he said.
Sally leaned over. “Conor, it’s 11 p.m. Nowhere on Coronado is open, much less serving frozen yogurt.”
But Conor wrapped his huge hands around Kara’s waist, and, before she could say anything, lifted her off the bar stool and set her on her feet.
“Hey,” she started, but he released her and held out his hand.
“Come on, sweet girl. Let’s go get dessert and you can tell me all about Berkeley and Columbia and being a wanderer, and I can tell you about how I grew up on an organic dairy farm in upstate New York and have to deal with an older sister who thinks the reason I’m still single is because I’m a Scorpio.”
She took his hand.
They never got fro-yo, of course. Instead, they walked back to her hotel in the dark, barely talking. He didn’t release her hand, but he didn’t look at her, either.
When she got to her hotel room, she began to unlock the door. He stopped her.
“Kara,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “We don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this. We can grab an Uber out of Coronado and go get something to eat. Get to know each other. Take this slow.”
Rage, white hot and surprising, shot through her. How dare he.
She glared. “Have to? I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.”
He nodded, relief and anticipation written across his face.
“I’m holding you to that.”
Before she could get angrier, he swiped the key card from her and grabbed both of her wrists with one hand, pushing them above her head and crowding her against the door. He paused for a moment—was he checking her reaction to the manhandling? Why was she getting off on this?—but she just pushed her hips against his, already feeling frantic. His mouth descended on hers, hot and hard. They both groaned from the contact, and then he was coaxing—no, coercing—her lips open with his, and for a few dizzy, breathless moments, the floor began to spin again and she forgot her own name.
He pulled away and spoke against her mouth. “If I do anything you don’t want, say veto.”
And with that, still holding her wrists with one hand, he unlocked the door and pulled her into the room.
He didn’t even flip on the light. Clothes were removed, by him, by her, she had no idea. Then they were on the bed and his hands were everywhere, and so were hers. He didn’t so much kiss her as eat at her mouth; she got her lips and teeth on his neck. There was some wrestling—a lot of wrestling—that ended up with her facedown on the bed, him holding her wrists behind her back. His teeth nipped her ear.
“Kara, struggle like the good girl I know you are,” he said, and a secret part of her—that apparently liked this kind of shit—woke up and gasped. And so she struggled, writhing underneath him, trying to buck him off. He laughed, deep and low, like a caress, and then he did caress her, working his free hand under her hips and rolling his fingers around her clit, making her buck again.
“Fuck, so wet,” he muttered, and then he lifted himself off her.
“Conor?” she asked, worried. Had she done something wrong?
His voice was strained when he asked, “Is that for me, Kara? Or is that for living out your SEAL fantasy?”
She twisted her neck to look at him. She couldn’t see much of his face, but this was obviously important. And maybe that was why she wanted to hide behind the SEAL fantasy excuse. The last time she thought the reason she picked a man mattered, the last time she had thought she mattered, look how it turned out. And yet here she was, with a man who she had spent only a few hours with, if that, and he seemed to know her better than Chris had. Conor not only knew what she wanted more than any man had ever bothered to learn, he seemed like he cared.
And fuck, if that wasn’t terrifying, she didn’t know what was.
So yeah, she wanted to lie. To say it had nothing to do with him, to maintain distance, to get back some of the control he’d taken. It was scary, feeling seen, but also exhilarating. And fanciful Kara was back, because the minute he’d brushed her fingers with his in the bar, it had felt like…
…fate.
She didn’t want to lie. As absurd as it sounded, she thought she might hurt him. And she hated the idea of hurting him.
“You,” she admitted, which earned her a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder, a bite where he’d kissed her, and circles from his fingers where she needed them most.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, playing with her clit until she shook from it.
Right when she was about to start begging, he pulled her back against his chest, tore open a condom wrapper and rolled a condom onto his cock, lifted her hips, and pushed inside her.
Kara exploded.
“Jesus, did you just come all over my cock?” he asked, almost in disbelief, and she felt embarrassed, except then he pulled out, flipped her over, and said, “Do it again.”
She lost track after that, both of time and of how many orgasms he gave her. He ate her and she sucked him off, he slapped her ass and she scratched his back, and they fucked for so long and so hard she almost passed out.
Hours later (days? weeks? months?) they collapsed, gasping. She tried to roll to the side but he dragged her back, pulling her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her. Kara usually hated feeling trapped, but this was a trap she didn’t want to escape.
“Kara,” he said.
“Hmm?” She hadn’t expected to cuddle, but she might as well enjoy it for as long as it lasted.
He sighed.
“You smell like my parents’ farm.”
She laughed so hard she snorted.
“Did you just snort?”
No, she refused to be embarrassed about that. She pushed on his chest until he loosened his arms. Kara straddled his waist, noting that, even soft, his cock was still huge.
Show-er and grower, she thought, snorting again.
“That’s adorable,” he teased.
“Did you just compare me to horse manure?”
“No.” He squeezed her hip. “Your hair, it smells like bee balm.”
“I have never met a single man who knows that.”
He released her back, wrapping a finger in one of her curls and tugging. “It grows everywhere on the farm. My mom loves it.”
Kara relaxed. “As long as you’re comparing me to a flower, I guess that’s okay.”
“It’s a weed, actually.”
She smacked his chest. “Dick.”
He smacked her ass in retaliation, before pulling her back down to lie on his sweaty chest. “I thought I hated the smell for so long. Turns out I was wrong.”
“You mean you don’t hate it as much? Glad to help,” she teased.
“No,” he said, voice quiet. “I think I could grow addicted to it.”
Her heart stopped.
“Conor…”
He interrupted her, which was good, because she didn’t even know what she was going to say.
“Why, sweet girl? You could’ve had your choice of any man in that bar. Why choose me?” His voice, still quiet, had a tinge of uncertainty. “Or was it because I was lucky enough to get to you first?”
It was the same question he’d asked earlier, except now she was coming off the orgasm high instead of climbing toward it.
“Because,” she said, equally quiet. “You called me smart girl.”
And I haven’t felt smart in a very, very long time, she was careful not to say.
He squeezed her again, kissing her hair, like he’d heard her anyway. “Did someone make you feel not smart? Because I’ll kill the asshole.”
There was an idea.
She shook her head, both at him and at that thought. Chris needed to stay in New York. He didn’t get to intrude on this… whatever this was.
“Thank you,” was all she said, but the thank you was for so much.
They fell silent, Kara listening to Conor’s slowing heartbeat as he stroked her back.
“What were you going to say before?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Okay, shy girl,” he said, cricking his neck to kiss her hair again before settling back on the pillow. “Maybe you’ll remember in the morning.”
He fell quiet again, but the quiet felt like a shared, magical thing between them, a cord pulling them closer together.
There she was, being fanciful again.
As Conor’s breathing slowed, his arms relaxing around her, she berated herself. Sex was one thing. Pillow-talk and imagining a connection where there wasn’t one would only get her in trouble.
She rolled off him. Cuddling like this was the issue. It made her yearn for things she didn’t really want, even though oxytocin said otherwise. The one time she’d thought she did, everything had blown up in her face. That’s why she was here, wasn’t it? And besides, it would be stupid to get attached. She was leaving in two days. All he’d done was compliment her on the scent of her shampoo. Not really the stuff of great love stories.
She curled up on her side away from him, trying to ignore the way the cold seeped into the negative space where his body had been.
But at some point in the night, whether it was him or her or both, she ended up spooned against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around her waist. And in the morning, as he worked a hand between her thighs, and worked her into a half-awake state of lust before working his hard, thick cock inside her, setting up a slow rhythm, as he kissed her neck and whispered, “Good morning, beautiful girl,” she forgot why it was so bad to be fanciful.
Afterward, she lay in bed in a satisfied heap while he dressed.
“Shit, I can’t find my phone,” he said. “Can you call it?”
He gave her the number and she called, only for it to ring in his jeans pocket.
She rolled her eyes. “Smooth.”
“Hey, I had to get your number somehow.” He finished pulling his clothes on, before coming to the bed and kissing her.
“Come out with me tonight,” he said.
“For what? To talk? More sex?” she asked.
“Why not both?”
Why not? Why not spend some more time with him? She was leaving, wasn’t she? So there was no real risk. Her body tightened at the idea of more Conor-administered orgasms. Her chest tightened at all the other ways he could praise her through the modified nicknames. Even with the professor, she’d never felt like this.
“Come on, brave girl. I know the best burger place in California.”
And there it was.
“Well, I can’t turn down a trip to In-N-Out,” she teased.
He came back to the bed, kissing her, a closed-mouth kiss sparking spirals of promise and dread.
“I can do better than In-N-Out, fancy girl.”
“Prove it.”