I fucking win.
I steal the bench, waiting happily, cracking open a book on my phone. For the next twenty minutes, I turn the digital pages on a Taylor Jenkins Reid book, devouring the details.
Well, mostly.
I keep sneaking glances up to look for Bellamy, and just as the heroine meets up with a long-lost love, I turn the phone off since Bellamy is rounding the corner.
Her long hair curls over her shoulders in silky waves. Her hips sway. And her lips move, maybe singing along with the song coming through her earbuds.
Standing, I watch her walk until her gaze lands on me.
Bellamy catches the corner of her bottom lip with her teeth, then slowly breaks into a sensual smile. She stops when she reaches me, plucking AirPods from her ears. “Hey, there—”
Looping an arm around her waist, I haul her close, dip her slightly. I sweep some of those chestnut strands from her face and brush my lips against hers.
The stars wink off.
Traffic stops.
The proverbial cameras roll, capturing an exquisite kiss for the movies—a hot, possessive, I’ve-missed-you, be-mine type of smooch.
Coasting my lips along hers, I get drunk on her taste. A flick of my tongue against her lush mouth, a tug on her bottom lip, then I moan hungrily as I kiss a little deeper.
There’s a hint of cinnamon and a dash of toothpaste, and those tastes swirl into the honeysuckle scent of her skin. Doesn’t take much for me to get high on her, even standing on a New York street.
I pull her up, break the kiss, then enjoy the fantastic devastation on her face—parted lips, hazy eyes, flushed cheeks.
She looks woozy.
I feel dizzy.
“Hello, senseless kissing,” she murmurs, running her fingers along her chin like she’s trying to reactivate a kiss to end all kisses.
“I believe in giving the woman what she wants.” My head is still buzzy, lust zinging everywhere in my brain and body. “And to think, you tried to get a word in edgewise with your hey, there.”
“Whatever was I thinking?”
“You should know me by now.”
She grabs the collar of my shirt, jerks me close. “I think I do, Easton.”
I kiss her nose. “You do.” I step away, then nod at her phone. “What were you singing along to?”
“Ella Fitzgerald. ‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me,’” she says.
I hum a few more words.
“You know the tune?”
“What do you take me for? Someone who doesn’t? I may have to detract points now for you not knowing me.”
The door to the restaurant swings open, and a couple strolls out, wrapped up in each other. The redhead drops a kiss onto the man’s lips, then they hail a taxi at the speed of light.
Bellamy tugs me close. “They met on Bumble. It’s their third date. He’s raring to get the third-date prize.”
I cast a glance at the cab squealing away. “Nah. They bumped into each other in the park while out for a run last year. He passed her around the reservoir, like a competitive bastard. She proceeded to school him and left him in the dust until the end of the run. They’ve been together a year, and he just returned home from a trip.”
“So, wait. He just returned from a trip and took her to dinner before boning her? That makes no sense,” she says as we head into the restaurant.
“Good evening. A table for two?” the host asks.
“Yes, please. The name is Ford,” I say, and the man looks up the reservation, then escorts us to the table.
Once he hands us the menus, I return to the subject of the couple outside. “No, he made love to her when he walked in the door. The dinner was post love-making,” I say.
She arches one brow. “Are you saying boning is too gauche for you?”
“Such a foul mouth on such a lovely lady,” I tease.
“Do you truly prefer making love?” she asks.
I let the corner of my lips curve up in a wicked grin. “No, sweetheart. I prefer to fuck.” I catch the soft whoosh of a gust of breath over her lips—her tell. “That’s what you do when you’re turned on.”
“What do I do?”
“You part your lips, just slightly. Your cherry-red, delicious, seductive lips that do all the things I like most.”
She nibbles on the corner of her mouth.
“And that, right there,” I add. “That means you’re getting wet.”
Her eyes narrow, and she lifts her napkin as if to toss it at me. “You’re incorrigible.”
I laugh, crossing my arms. “I’m also not wrong.”
She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly admits, “You’re not.”
I slide the menu to her. “This place has amazing pasta dishes. The sauces are incredible. My friend Nolan recommends the lobster ravioli if you eat shellfish, and Emerson—she hosts a food review show with him—says the asparagus and bowtie pasta is to die for if you prefer to go veg.”