The Blind Date by Landish, Lauren (suggested reading .txt) 📕

hold close to his chest, trying new things, and not worrying about being perfect is dead sexy.

How is he perfect when he’s being regimented and also perfect at being wild? I don’t know, but he is sexy both ways.

We eat in comfortable silence for the most part, enjoying the easy company and delicious food. Noah dips a fry in ketchup and holds it up for me so I can eat it from his hand, and he gives me a saucy smirk.

But eventually, we can’t eat another bite despite barely making a dent in the food on our plates. I sit back in the booth, patting my belly. “You might have to roll me and my food baby out of here,” I joke.

“Happily. Though it might be slow going.” He pats his own stomach, which is flat beneath his dress shirt. I felt him underneath me last night, though, and I know there are bumps and ridges of abs under there.

“I think I’m going to skip the cake shake this time,” I tell him, and Noah groans.

“Ugh, don’t talk about food. No more food. As it is, I’m going to have to run an extra ten miles to work that off. Unless . . .”

His eyes have gone bright, and though I don’t know what it is, I know he’s been struck with an idea. I can’t wait to hear what impulsive thing has struck his fancy because he’s living in my world now.

“Let’s dance,” he says.

I couldn’t be more shocked if he’d said he was going to drink that cake shake. Noah Daniels dances? To this?

The music washing over the dance floor is distinctive, with sharp horns and a quick beat.

“You can’t be serious, after eating all that?”

“Come on,” Noah urges me, reaching out and tugging on my hand. “If not, I’m going to dance with the waitress who’s dressed up as Raquel Welch.”

Oh, hell no. Despite my stomach feeling about three sizes too big, I heave myself out of the booth and onto the dance floor as I recognize the tune. Dancing In The Streets. Noah puts on a show, completely at ease as he moves and grooves. He even copies the costumed dancers, who I’ve decided must be employees who keep everyone on the floor. They do some sort of twisting move, and even though I worry it might make me puke, I dance along, laughing the whole time.

It’s crazy. It’s fun. It’s amazing.

It’s Noah Daniels, dancing wildly to oldies with tomato juice on his shirt, sweat at his temples, and smiling like he never knew life could be this fun.

Other than the tomato juice, I imagine I look the same. Vibrantly happy, full-bellied and having the time of my life.

Another song starts, Jump On It! and everyone does the same moves, bumping their hips around in a circle before yee-hawing lasso hands in the air.

“Come on now, shake it!” I urge at one point, and Noah goes full-on cheese mode, throwing his hands up and circling his hips, but instead of a cowboy, it looks more like a stripper. I can’t help but cheer and giggle along with his antics.

Wayne rushes by the floor, another handful of plates on a tray, and calls out, “Save some of that for the Hand Jive. It’s coming up soon.”

I freeze, mouth gaping open, and Noah’s wide eyes stare back at me. “Did he say a hand job is coming soon?” I whisper.

But Noah hears me, and his eyes fill with heat. I let him pull me in tight, where the clean scent of his fresh sweat is intoxicating.

“I fucking hope so,” he growls into my ear. “And more.”

The music slows down, and with our bodies touching, I can feel what I’m doing to him. He’s thick and large in his slacks, and I realize that my nipples are pearled up too, aching for his touch. Noah sways us, and I follow his lead, my panties soaked from something besides the heat of dancing.

It might as well be only the two of us on that dance floor, with no one else in the room. I think the song changes again, but we stay exactly as we are—swaying slowly and looking into each other’s eyes. Noah dips me, swooping me through the air with a strong hand on my back, and when I come up, he meets me with a gentle kiss. The softness from this man is my undoing.

“Noah.”

I don’t know how to ask for what I want. I don’t even know if I have words for what I want except . . . him. Noah.

He takes my hand and guides me off the floor. At our table, he quickly lays down cash for Wayne and then we’re running for the door.

Outside, the cool night air helps with my overheated body, but my head is still spinning, intoxicated with all things Noah Daniels. When we get to his SUV, he backs me up against it, caging me in with a hand on either side of my hips. I cup his face and lift up encouragingly, wanting his kiss. More than his kiss.

And he obliges. He devours me, right there in the parking lot of Big Mike’s. His tongue claims my mouth, his lips lay a trail along my neck, his hands squeeze and dent the flesh of my hips, and he grinds himself against me. But I’m a willing participant, giving as good as I’m getting. My hands drop from his face to his chest before I wrap my arms around his neck, not letting him put even a tiny inch between us.

So when he guides me back to lie on the hood, I let him. I shouldn’t. We’re in public, and this could be scandalous. But he kisses down my neck to my collarbone, and I forget all reason. My eyes flutter closed, and I hold him to my skin, wanting him to taste me, mark me, take me.

But voices sound out in the dim parking lot, breaking the spell, and I open my eyes.