Page 103 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
“Tell me, was it really that crooked?”
I nodded. “You know how a giraffe’s head extends perpendicular from his long neck?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Picture that, but in dick form.”
“Oh shit.” He laughed. “Damn, did you take a picture?”
“No! What is wrong with you?”
“For science.”
“You and Delaney hang out too much,” I responded while finally making my way out of the apartment with Henry tailing me.
I started to head to get a taxi when Henry stopped me and said, “I got a car, love.”
I turned to see him heading toward a black Ford Escape.
“Where did you get this?”
“Rented it. Thought it might be nicer to drive than take a taxi and get ripped off. Plus, we can listen to Queen and sing our asses off.”
My heart took off from how considerate Henry was. He always thought ahead.
“Henry, that’s so sweet. Thank you but, you meant Britney Spears, right?”
“We’ll see.” He winked, opened the door for me, and grabbed my hand.
He helped me in the car and before he shut the door, he looked at me with a spark in his eyes, something I’d never experienced from him before.
I could tell he wanted to say something, but instead of telling me what was on his mind, he leaned over, placed a kiss on my forehead, and pulled away, shutting my door.
The rapid beat of my heart from his small gesture caught me off guard as I waited for him to get in the car. It was Henry; he kissed me on the forehead all the time, so it was nothing to look into.
But then why did I want him to do it again? Why did I want him to not just kiss me on the forehead but on the lips again? Thoughts of the first time he kissed me on the lips ran through my mind. He was gentle, luscious, yet sexy. He’d felt right.
No,I chastised myself,we are friends.
“You ready to go, love?” he asked and placed his hand on my thigh, making Virginia come to life from the self-induced coma she put herself in after yesterday afternoon. Apparently she didn’t have any aversions to Henry.
“Ready,” I gulped as I watched his thumb slowly caress the inside of my thigh, next to my knee.
By no means was his hand in my crotch—it wasn’t even close—but the fact that he was touching me in an intimate way had me sweating, shaking . . . and internally begging for more. It was going to be a very long car drive.
* * *
“I’m so glad you two could make it,” my mom cooed as she hovered over her French toast.
The ride from the city to my parents’ house wasn’t too bad except for the fact that Henry’s hand never moved from my leg, leaving me quaking in my seat. Thankfully, his off-pitch singing helped ease the tension.
I was the DJ, so once I played a couple Queen songs to appease my driver, I skipped through the songs on his playlist and was pleased to see he had every Britney Spears hit on his phone. The minute I started playing her songs, I watched as Henry changed from seventies rock band to nineties pop star, and I couldn’t stop laughing. He hit every note, shimmied, and even popped a shoulder or two to the beat.
I was pretty sure he never sang and danced to Britney Spears for anyone else, and I was so honored he shared his little hidden secret for me. I felt privileged to have such knowledge, and if I wasn’t so distracted by his hand, I would have been recording his pop-princess ass on my phone.
“Thanks for having us, Mrs. Bloom. When I heard baked French toast, I couldn’t resist.”
“You don’t have to suck up to them,” I whispered to Henry.
