Spring Fling (Dating Season Book 1) by Laurelin Paige (novel24 .TXT) 📗

mean, how fun would it be for me for my boyfriend to have a tiny house? Like a realtor, I point out all the positive aspects. Built-in bookshelf over the door. Storage beneath the couch cushions. No cords anywhere. They’ve made it luxurious and modern with dark hardwoods, and granite countertops in the minimalist kitchen.

“I’m not composting a toilet,” he says, while I stand in the shower to show him a person can indeed fit. Sadly, there would never be shower sex, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

I step out, losing hope I’ll change his mind. “I think that’s an incinerator toilet. It lights your...you know...on fire, in a totally safe way.”

He gives me a flat look. “Light my shit on fire? Do I even need to say it?”

“No.”

I’m still determined, when we leave the bathroom. In the loft area is the bedroom. I scramble up the narrow steps and duck my head to climb in the bed. “There’s a skylight.”

Finn peeks into the claustrophobic space. “Yeah, I’d have to stick my head out of it to fit in here.”

This is true, but I’m not giving up. In a bit of a Houdini move, I roll off the bed and hunch my way out of the room. Downstairs, I brush past Finn and open a door that leads to an oversized concrete patio full of furniture. Bingo.

“Wow, this is huge.” He follows me outside. “Your space is expanded outdoors.” I spread my arms. “Endless entertaining back here under the stars.”

He looks up at the night sky and doesn’t seem dazzled by the multitude of twinkling dots.

Short chunks of wood lie stacked next to the house, so I try another tactic. “There’s even a fire pit, for when it’s chilly. Don’t you want to live in harmony with nature?”

“Not really. Is Austin’s place still available?”

This can’t happen. Not to be negative, but what if there’s a breakup? Who gets Austin? “I don’t really think you want to room with Austin. He’s a chef, so there’s a constant temptation of delicious carbs.”

“He seems laid-back, though. That’s important.”

“He is, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Ya know?”

“Why not?” He moves closer and caresses my arms. “You thinking about maybe us living together?” he asks.

“Jesus, no.” Oops. Too adamant. His question has me off-kilter. I wish I’d paid more attention to Jack Ryan tracking down clues. Is Finn leaving me a set as well? Is he more into this than I am? When I mentally advance to the future with Finn, it’s blurry.

“I mean, just feels a little soon, right?” I say, softly. “It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

He nods. “So if I move in with him, you won’t be hurt?”

I worry at the corner of my lip. How do I answer his question? I don’t.

“Funny you should say hurt.” Disregarding Henry’s internet relationship advice, I slip on a mask. “I’m really sore from the workout yesterday. Maybe you could kiss it better?”

Nine

“You’re making me horny,” Finn says.

Success. My house of cards is still standing. Of course, guilt is now threatening to knock it down. But the primal way he’s looking at me is now making me horny.

“Want to head back to my place?” I suggest.

“No. Here. Outside.”

The staccato rhythm of his words is caveman-esque and sends an ache straight to my core. I’ve never had sex in the open, and the prospect excites me. There’s a problem, though—this is someone else’s property. It doesn’t seem right to desecrate a stranger’s patio.

Without uttering a word, Finn’s tempting lips talk me into it. It’s not like we’re trespassing. He has a key, and we’re not going to have sex in the tiny bed. We’re outside.

“I’m in.”

“Give me two minutes.” In an impressive display that Bear Grylls would envy, he tosses logs into the basket-shaped fire pit and finds everything needed to bring it to life.

“See. You belong here.”

He sits in an Adirondack chair, long legs spread. “Come here.” I move in front of him. “Show me where it hurts.”

I point to my bicep and he leans in, soothing the tender muscle with his lips. This turns into a sensual game where he nurtures every spot I direct him—inner thigh, hip, stomach, shoulder.

When I press a fingertip to my breast, he rubs the pad of his thumb against the stiff peak. “Are you going to be my dirty little slut tonight?”

Weirdly, I’m not offended by his words. Who am I? It’s funny how you have no inkling what you like sexually until it’s presented to you by a gorgeous man who follows it up with, “Only mine, though. No one else gets the dirty slut.”

I nod, mesmerized by the shadow of flames dancing across his chiseled face. “I want you to do what I say, and then I’ll make you come.”

Oh, dear. What has been going on in the bedrooms of America while I was making pottery? I feel so cheated by the beta males of my past.

“What do you want me to do?” Seems a fair question to ask. I’m learning to expect the unexpected with Finn.

“Take your clothes off,” he says. “Let me see your body.”

With lava—not real lava—coursing in my veins from his commanding tone, I tantalize him with an unhurried striptease. I’ve never stripped for a man before, but the roaring fire is making me hedonistic. Swaying to the imaginary music in my head, I inch my shirt up, exposing the skin beneath at a slow-moving pace. Once it’s off, I let it flutter to the ground, and memorize every detail of Finn’s reaction. The half grunt, the swipe of his tongue on his full lips, the rise of his chest.

My shoes are toed off, and I slip my fingertips in the waistband of my joggers and shimmy them off. Joggers aren’t particularly sexy, but I feel sexy as I use them like a feather boa to finish my performance. When I’m done, I drop them with a wink.

His hooded gaze flickers to