Page 29 of Stud

“What about you? Worst way to die.”

She tore off a piece of naan bread, scooped the last of our chana masala, and hummed as she swallowed. “If we’re talking fictional, then molten gold poured over my head.”

I froze mid-sip of my beer. “As in Game of Thrones?”

“Obviously.”

“I didn’t peg you for a fantasy lover.”

“I have eclectic taste in music and TV. My dad got me into fantasy stuff, and Khal Drogo boiling Viserys Targaryen’s brain to give him his ‘gold crown’ was gruesomely awesome. Bad way to go.”

She played word games, loved to hike, watched violent fantasy shows, her raspy voice exuded sex, and she looked like she walked off the set of Some Like it Hot. I couldn’t have dreamed up this woman. “And if we’re talking real life?”

She shuddered. “Death by submarine.”

“Meaning a submarine falling on you, or dying in a submarine?”

She glowered at my teasing. “Dying in a submarine, smartass. Walking into one would give me an instant heart attack.”

“You have issues with confined spaces?”

“I’m a tad claustrophobic. Tend to hyperventilate and thrash wildly when boxed in. It isn’t pretty.”

Even now, her cheeks paled. The notion of her stressed and anxious did strange things to my chest. It had me wanting to run my thumb between her eyes, erase the crease settling there. “Do subways bother you?”

“I avoid them.”

“Elevators?”

“I get sweaty.”

Images of a flushed and dewy Ainsley flipped through my mind. Her curvy body under me. Over me. Locked in my arms. “Must make getting around tough.”

“I deal with it. It just gets uncomfortable at times.”

Like sitting across from her and not leaning over to taste her pulse point. A crumb from the naan clung to the edge of her mouth. Needing to touch her, I reached to brush it off. The tip of my finger dragged by her lips. Those plump, bee-stung lips. Her breasts rose on an inhalation, my nearness affecting her as much as it was me. My cock grew heavy, my body buzzing with desire. The urge to get our check and get gone was potent, but chatting with her was fun, too. Slowly, I sat back.

She seemed to bite the inside of her cheek, then she sent me a wicked grin. “Can I ask you a…” She chewed her cheek some more. “A personal question?”

I leaned into my chair, tipping onto its back legs. “Anything.”

“What’s sex really like for a guy?”

I dropped forward, and my chair thunked on the tile floor. That question was unexpected. Unexpected but intriguing. I liked it. Liked that Ainsley wanted to up the flirting a notch. “I need more specifics before I answer.”

“Just…” Lilting Indian music drifted through the half-filled room. Ainsley swayed to the beat. “Is every orgasm the same? I mean, for girls it’s different. Oral versus sex sex. Mood. Attraction. All those things affect how it feels. But guys, you know, just come. So, does it feel the same each time, or does it change?”

Jesus H. Christ. If I was hard before, I was iron now, thankfully covered by the tablecloth. She must have realized what she was doing to me. Must have been intent on killing me one sex-fuelled, husky word at a time. Delaying this gratification would make touching her that much sweeter. “It’s always good.” My voice was scratchy, and I cleared my throat. “Always blinds me. But some orgasms last longer, rock you harder, and with the right person, it’s more intense.” I held her gaze until she looked away. Her pale cheeks burned pink.

I had no doubt sex with Ainsley would blow my mind.

She dragged her teeth over her bottom lip and lowered her voice. “What about head? What’s, like, really hot? What takes a blowjob from good to oh-my-fucking-God?”

My blood wasn’t just singing now. It was roaring. It was demanding me to grab Ainsley, flip her over my shoulder, and carry her home to show her exactly what I liked, then spend the rest of the evening worshipping her curves. Every glorious dip and swell. I tugged at my shirt’s neckline and sipped my water, never breaking eye contact.

“You want to know what I like?”

“I want to know what men like.”