Uninhibited (Unlikely Lovers) (3 page)

“Not in the mood?”

“Wouldn’t matter if I was,” she muttered.

“What
do you mean?”

“Nothing,”
she replied. “Too hard to explain. Just leave it be.”

He
shifted into a less erogenous stance but stayed closer to her than he probably should have. The line moved forward again and, all too soon, it was her turn to order.

“Know what you want yet
?” he asked.

“No
. You’ll have to decide for me. I can’t do it.”

She didn’t seem flustered—although his nearness would
’ve had that effect on most women. She sounded sad, hopeless.

When t
he kid behind the counter asked for her order, Alan took her at her word. “She’ll have a hot fudge sundae with chocolate cheesecake on Jamocha fudge with extra dark chocolate chunks mixed in. Better make that two. Oh, and don’t forget the whipped cream and pecans.”

“I
didn’t know men ever got PMS,” she commented. “How interesting.”

The boy grinned and shook his head, scooping out a huge lump of ice cream before plopping it onto the marble slab with a flourish and mashing it down with a spatula.

Turning his head, Alan buried his face in her hair and inhaled. Her fragrance flooded his senses like a rose in full bloom, stealing its way through his body all the way to his toes. “So is that what the problem is? PMS? Or are you always like this?”

She heaved a sigh.
“Have been lately. Just don’t give a damn about anything.”

Which might explain why he hadn’t driven her insane yet.
“Is that why you don’t mind having a perfect stranger hanging onto you like a leech? Or is this your typical night out at the ice cream parlor?”

“Not really, no.”

“Guess I’ll have to make the best of it while I can—unless, of course, you want to go home with me.” He didn’t have much hope there, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“
I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“That’s okay
. Really. I don’t mind. I’ll just go home tonight and dream about this fabulous woman I shared my coat with for a while.”
Better change the subject
. “Speaking of clothes, do you suppose they have feelings? I mean, do they hang in your closet and grumble because you haven’t worn them in a long time, or do they get pissed when you spill gravy on them?”

Turning, she gave him a slow blink and
the best
have you lost your mind
look he’d ever seen—which wasn’t surprising considering he’d gone from the erotic to the absurd in the space of thirty seconds. “I have no idea.” 

“Don’t care, either, do you?”

“Let’s just say it’s not a possibility I’ve ever considered—until now. But yes, if clothes had feelings, they would probably get mad when you spilled stuff on them. I’m sure your coat is outraged at having to work twice as hard to keep two people warm. And just think how ticked our clothes will be when we get chocolate all over them.”

“
Guess you want me to back off, huh?”

“Yeah.
” She sounded a tiny bit disappointed at the prospect, although that might have been wishful thinking on his part. “I need to pay this guy for the ice cream.”

“
My treat.” Reaching over the counter, he traded the clerk a twenty for the two sundaes. 

“
You don’t need to do that.”

“But I want to. Besides, I think you
need a treat. I’m guessing no one’s
treated
you in a long time.”

“You’re right about that
,” she said with another sigh. Glancing around the crowded store, she added, “Looks like we might have to eat this in our cars—or take it home.”

Alan’s heart nearly stopped
at the thought of her hopping in her car and driving away. “Please don’t leave yet.”

“
Don’t worry. I won’t run away. I promise.”

“
That’s what the last one said. She told me she was going to the restroom. She never came back. I think she climbed out the window.”

“
That’s weird. How long had you known her?”

“We’d been living together for about three months.”
Which was longer than most of his women lasted.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Although I could probably top that story.”

“I’ve had worse things happen to me, too,” he admitted. “This girl left all of her furniture at my place, so in a way, I came out ahead.”

Shut up, Alan.
Telling her his horror stories probably wasn’t the best tactic—especially
that
story. Having a woman leave everything behind to get away from him didn’t bode well for future relationships. Still, a guy never knew what it would take to gain a woman’s sympathy.

He nodded toward a young couple gathering up their empty dishes. “There’s a table opening up.
Better grab it while we can.”

She hesitated.
“Well…okay. I’ll stay at least as long as it takes to eat this.”

“
Yeah, right. For all I know, you might be a champion sundae eater. You could be gone in sixty seconds. Maybe I should handicap you, letting you only eat one bite for my two.”

“And just how
would you do that?”

“I won’t give you a spoon
.” He snatched hers from the dish. “Or I’ll feed you. It’s very romantic. And besides, we’re sweethearts, aren’t we?”

She
pulled out a chair and sat down. “I thought we were pretending.”

“Yes, but if we pretend enough it might
actually happen.”

Arching a brow, she scooted up to the table.
“Do you always become sweethearts with a woman this quickly?”

“I have to move fast
.” Placing his chair right next to hers, he sat down close enough that their shoulders, hips, and thighs touched. “You know…before they realize they can’t stand me.”

She didn’t exactly snuggle up to him, but at least she didn’t move away. “
I usually like to know a man’s name before I can consider him my sweetheart. Right now, all I know is that your name isn’t Mitch.”

“Mitch? Oh, yeah, right
—the guy you don’t know that you have to buy a gift for. Maybe I could help you with that. I used to know a Mitch. He was a big NASCAR fan—went into mourning when Dale Earnhart died.”

“I doubt that all Mitches would feel that way,”
she said. “I could be wrong, but...”

“Okay. Um, he also liked
—” He paused, grimacing. “No, can’t tell you that part. Too kinky. Maybe your Mitch is a football fan.”

“
Hmm, yes, he might like the Colts—or maybe IU or Purdue.”

“Do you have to pick one? I mean, aren’t there any generic teams?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Don’t you
know
?”

“Never watch football
—or any other sports for that matter,” he said around a mouthful of ice cream. “Waste of time.”

“Not enough contact for you?”

“Not unless I’m playing, and that’s not the sort of contact I like.”

“But we were talking about Mitch,”
she reminded him. “He might like it.”

“Might like girls with big—nope,
better not say that. Too crass.”

“Are you
ever going to tell me your name, or is that asking too much at this point in our relationship?”

“We have a relationship? That’s great
.
Really
great.”

Retrieving her spoon, she
ate a few bites of her sundae, then leaned back, tipping her head to one side. “You know, you’re kinda cute, now that I can actually see you. Dimples, nice smile, longer hair than is stylish these days, but it works for you. You remind me of a young Russell Crowe. Too bad you’re so crazy.”

She wasn’t the first person to tell him he looked like Russell Crowe. He didn’t see the resemblance himself.
“Crazy isn’t all bad. You might even decide you like it. How old are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“If we’re going to have a relationship, yes, I think it matters.”

“I’m thirty-two,”
she replied.

“Great
. I’m thirty-four. That’s perfect.”

“Yes, Not Mitch
, I’m sure it is.”

“
Oh, that’s right. You still want to know my name.” He cleared his throat. “Well, then. Here goes. Would Paul be okay with you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Or would you like Alan better?”

She rolled her eyes.
“It’s not a matter of preference. It’s a matter of fact. Either your name is Paul or Alan, or it isn’t. Which is it?”

“Wait, I’m not done yet. How about Ryan?”

“Ryan,” she repeated. “Yes, Ryan is fine. So which is it?”

“All three,” he replied. “My parents couldn’t decide, and the worst part of it is, my last name is John.”

“So your name is Paul Alan Ryan John?”

“Close.
It’s actually Alan Paul Ryan John.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Alan. It makes me sound a little bit like Elton John—you know, Alan and Elton? They sort of sound alike.”

“Too bad you’re tone deaf.”

He stared at her blankly. “Oh—not a songwriter. You remembered.”

“It hasn’t been that long ago,”
she said. “My short term memory isn’t shot yet.”

“That’s good—or maybe it isn’t.
I’d probably be better off with a woman who couldn’t remember much. That way I could do all the things I want to do all the time, and she wouldn’t get tired of it because she wouldn’t remember.”

“
They say menopause will do that to you. Maybe you should date older women.” She hesitated as though afraid to ask the obvious question. “So what is it you like to do all the time that women get so tired of?”

“
First off, there’s the contact thing,” he began. “And I like to kiss a lot.” Stopping there, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ve been told I’m voracious.”

“Voracious?”

“
Sexually
voracious.”

“Sexually?”
She seemed curious.

Good sign.

“Yeah
. I want it all the time.”

“
All
the time?”

Here goes nothing…
“I’ve never been with anyone who would actually let me do it, but I think I could probably go six or seven times a day—maybe more.”

She
sat and stared at him for a long moment before she finally blinked. “No wonder you think football is a waste of time.” She glanced at his dish, which was almost empty. “Is chocolate a good substitute?”

“No.
” He pushed his bowl away. “It isn’t.” With a sniff, he ran a nervous hand through his hair. There was no substitute for having a woman wrapped around him while he fucked her hot, wet pussy.
None.
He wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

“Drugs?”
she suggested.

“Never tried any.”

“Alcohol?”

“Not even close.”

“Smoking?”

“Never tried
it. Too expensive and I don’t like the smell—aside from the fact that it’s unhealthy.”

“Masturbation?”

“Helps, but not much.”

“Pornography?”

“Oh, hell, no.”

“And how long since—”

“I don’t think I’m addicted,” he said, interrupting her. “I can go without it for a while, and I don’t have to do it that often, but—”

“How long?”
she repeated.

God, she was pretty, even while interrogating him
on a very sore subject. Gorgeous green eyes, thick sandy hair, lips so luscious he couldn’t wait to devour them. He sucked in a ragged breath. “About a year.”

“
That must seem like an eternity for you.” She swallowed hard, the corners of her mouth turning down as though she’d just eaten something rotten. “Then again, if you
were
addicted, I bet I could cure you.”

Not likely.
“How?”

“
Spend a little time with me, and you won’t want it anymore.”

“No way
.”

“It’s true.
” She smiled grimly. “My last boyfriend would be banging away, and then his dick would go soft.”

That had only happened to Alan once—after he’d already come three times.
“Sounds like that was
his
problem, not yours.”

“I don’t
think so. I’m beginning to see a pattern. The boyfriend I had before that said he didn’t want to get married because he didn’t want children. He broke up with me, and now he’s married and has a set of twin girls.” She sat there, staring at her melting sundae, the whipped cream slithering down the slope like an avalanche. “Then, of course, there was my husband.”