“I’d like to deep throat you,” I add, and, using my right hand, run the tips of my fingers down my neck, “but that is just not going to be possible with what you’re packing.”
He places his hand over mine on his thigh and squeezes. The light changes and he accelerates.
“I’d be happy to slide my cock past those lips of yours. But not tonight.”
“What? Why?” It comes out a little shocked, and, if I’m honest, whiny. Is he saying we’re not having sex today? Because I really want it. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. Fine. All week.
“Relax, Boots. I’m still going to fuck you.”
“Whew.” I exhale a giant breath and he just glances over and shakes his head.
“Can I fuck you without a condom?”
“No way. But I’ll suck you off without a condom. And I’ll swallow.”
“Well, then.”
“Hey, that’s a good offer. I haven’t swallowed since high school.”
We’re stopped at the light, making a left onto 22nd Street, and he glares at me.
I scrunch my nose and grimace. “But perhaps you didn’t need to hear that.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Oopsie.” I shrug. “Anyway, why can’t I suck your dick tonight? You’re being unreasonable.”
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at me. We’re on Market Street headed towards Penn Square and I wait while he pulls the car into the Ritz-Carlton garage, slides into his parking space and gives me his full attention. He puts his arm across my headrest and traces the shell of my ear with his fingers before speaking softly.
“Because I want to come inside of you, even if it’s in a condom. And then I want to do it again. And again. I don’t know if I can hold off a load for your throat until tomorrow.”
I want to blow him in this car right now, but I’m guessing he’s a few years past that stage in his life. Plus it’s a very tiny car.
“But I promise I won’t bring you home tomorrow night without letting you suck my dick. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree. “But the Eagles are playing the Cardinals tomorrow, so I’m only available for a blowjob at half time.”
“You like the Eagles?” His eyes light up in interest.
“I love them. I used to watch games with my dad every weekend when I was growing up.” I laugh. “You can thank Finn for that.”
“How so?” He raises a brow in question.
“He showed up at our house one time when I was, I don’t know, around twelve, wearing an Eagles jersey. So of course I told him how much I loved football.”
“Of course you did.”
“I’d never watched a game in my life. But Eric heard me telling Finn how much I loved football, so he retaliated by telling our dad how I was dying to watch the games with him every Sunday.” I shrug. “I ended up loving it.”
He grins. “I gave him that jersey. Finn never cared about anything but running.”
“So you’ve been unintentionally messing with my life for a decade,” I mock complain.
“I’d have intentionally messed with you given the chance.” He frowns. “Scratch that. Thank God I didn’t meet you before now. Eric would’ve killed me.”
“Probably,” I agree.
His blue eyes glint in the dim light being cast from the parking garage lights and the tiny car manages to feel even smaller than it is. He’s almost overwhelming, something I’m not used to. I’m usually the one overwhelming people, not the other way around. He makes my heart race in the best way, but I can’t help but worry that this relationship is too easy, Sawyer’s too perfect, and that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment.
Thirty-Three
We exit the parking garage hand in hand and walk past City Hall heading for the Reading Terminal Market. It’s less than half a mile away, just a couple of city blocks. It’s just cold enough to put a little hustle in our steps, but not enough to make it unpleasant.
The moment we enter through the 12th Street entrance, we’re assaulted with the usual market pandemonium. Crowds of people, both tourists and locals alike. Smells competing from all corners of the large space. Shopkeepers offering samples lined up in front of their stalls. It’s bedlam and I love it.
“Let’s get ice cream.” I tug on Sawyer’s hand and nod my head towards Bassett’s, rolling up on my toes in excitement.
“Ice cream? It’s noon, we haven’t even had lunch.”
I stop dead and look at him in disbelief. “You buzzkill.”
“We can get a pint to go later,” he suggests and I take a step back.
“Whoa, buddy. I’m not sure this”—I point between us—“is going to work out.”
He rolls his eyes and lets me drag him to the Bassett’s line. We’re jostled by the crowd as we shuffle our way forward and I examine the menu. I bounce on my toes again, peering over people’s heads at my choices. Cherry vanilla, maybe. Mango, no. Not in the mood for mint chocolate chip. “Raspberry truffle,” I tell the kid behind the counter with confidence when we get to the head of the line. “Sawyer?” I look over my shoulder. “What do you want?”