Page 134 of Just for the Plot

He shakes his head. “You lucked out, man. She dry-humped you and that was pure fucking luck and wine and you know it. You took yourchances and fingered her—can’t stand the term by the way—and that seemed to pan out. The next move is the most important move.”

I hate to admit it, but he might be right. I was able to pass off the dry-humping and get her into a position where I could make the next move, but that was a big one, a big one that she allowed. But my next move is the most important.

“So, what is it going to be?” He nudges me. “You dry-humped her, you fingered her, now you can go all the way and shove your dick in her, or you can take the half step before that.”

“What’s the half step?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes as if I’m a fucking moron. “Eat her out, man.”

He pats my chest and then pushes off the wall.

Just as Asher exits the cages, Nolan calls out, “I’ve got next.”

Eat her out?

Would she even allow that?

Fuck, I want to, desperately. But that’s a huge step. Wouldn’t kissing her be easier than that?

I chase after Nolan, who is loosening up his back in the cages.

“What about a kiss?” I ask through the net. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

He shakes his head and gets in his stance just as a ball is thrown to him and he grounds out. He swears under his breath and loosens his arms for a second.

“No, my man. A kiss is intimate. That’s easily last. Use your lips…on her lips.”

He swings and cracks the ball up the middle.

“It’s the only way. Trust me on this.”

“I trusted you on Cougar,” I counter.

“Yeah, and look at where that got your fingers. Right in her pussy. You’re welcome.”

“Look at this,” Gretchen says as she plops a manila folder in front of me.

I’m exhausted from the game last night. It went extra innings and we wound up losing. It was a tough loss because we’re on the edge of making the playoffs, and right now, every game matters. Every fucking game.

I stare down at the folder and say, “It’s a manila folder.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Flip it open.”

Groaning because I’m not in the mood for Gretchen’s theatrics, I flip open the folder only to find a write-up of Books with Bombers.

Social media handles.

Pictures.

Followers…

“What the hell?” I say, zeroing in on the number. “Is that really ten thousand followers on Instagram?”

“It is,” she says. “And about ninety-eight percent of them are women.”

“Probably because I’m reading romance.”

“That and because you’re nice to look at.”