Good Girl

Good Girl by Jana Aston



"We're not leaving this bar until you kiss someone." Payton says this as if we were in the midst of having a conversation about me kissing someone. We weren't. I nod all the same because we're best friends and I'm used to this kind of outburst from her.

"So you want me to kiss someone and then we can leave?" I set my glass down on the bar top and twist a bit in my seat as if I'm scanning the room for options. I'm not, not really, but I'm happy to play along.

"Yeah. Once you've at least kissed someone we can leave."

"At least kissed?" I turn back to her with a laugh. "How far do you want me to go? In a bar? With a stranger?" I'm laughing because this conversation is ridiculous—and yet… the idea of it entices me. The idea that I could have my pick of any man in this bar and ask him to kiss me. Or maybe even feel me up in the hallway. Maybe he'd take charge and press me against the wall. Shove his knee between my thighs while he ran kisses down my jaw before covering my lips with his own.

Yeah, that was oddly specific.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and let my eyes stray past Payton to the two men sitting on the other side of her. I've been discreetly eyeing them all night. One of them has a British accent. He's drunk and obsessing about a woman he just broke up with. Or who broke up with him—I'm not sure and I don't really care. The object of my desire is guy number two.

Guy number two is perfect.

He's so perfect I can't even look directly at him, hence the discreet glances. He's totally out of my league. Dark tousled hair with a hint of a wave. Perfectly cut, and I just know it would be soft under my fingers and not full of gross hair product. He's got facial hair, trimmed close as if he can't commit between a stubble and a beard, and the darkest brown eyes that make my stomach drop when they catch mine. His forearms are tanned and lined with sinewy muscle. They will be the focus of my fantasies for at least the next month.

He rubs the pad of his thumb against the pad of his index finger as his friend talks, but not in an anxious way. Slowly, as if it's something he does when he thinks, or perhaps it's a thing he does while he listens. His nails are short and nicely shaped. I'd guess based on his hands that he works at a desk, but based on what I can see of his body, his hobby is the gym.

His forefinger takes another slow drag across his thumb and oh, holy Jesus, I am imagining something else entirely right now.

I need to get laid.

"You need to get laid," Payton says at the exact moment the man's gaze rises from the bar top to my eyes. I die about ten thousand times, but Payton is unaware that I've just died so she continues babbling about finding someone for me to kiss before we can leave. Mister Perfect's eyes are still on mine.

"I'll do it," he says.

Oh, my God. Wait, is he talking to me? Is this happening? Surely I misheard. Misunderstood. He's talking to someone behind me or the bartender or the drunk British guy. I take a quick look over my shoulder to see who's behind me. There's no one behind me.

"I'll do it," he repeats and for a heartbeat my brain short-circuits. Firm yes, is what I'm thinking. Firm yes. Where will we do it? I don't want to do it here, that would be weird. I don't think we should go back to his place, he's a total stranger. He could come to my place. Yes. Payton could run to Target or something and give us privacy. I wonder if he'll mind that I only have a single bed? I knew I should have bought a bigger one but it was more money and my room is tiny and I needed room for my sewing machine. Holy shit, this is happening. This man who is too hot to look directly at wants to have sex with me. I blink and then he finishes speaking, a small smirk on his face. "I'll kiss you."


Right. It's not like he'd be so taken with me—a random girl in a bar—he'd want to have sex with me based on nothing more than hearing my friend say I need to get laid. Dumb. I'm such an idiot. As if.

"She accepts," Payton says and she shoves me off my stool. For real, she actually gives me a little shove, similar to how I imagine mothers shove their children out the front door on the first day of school.

The man turns on his stool and I watch him take me in now that I'm standing. His eyes trail slowly up my bare legs and I want to kill Payton for dragging me into this bar. We just spent the weekend moving into our new apartment and I thought we were going out for a burger, so I'm in denim cutoffs and a tank top. I should have known better. Once we'd left the apartment Payton insisted we needed to check out the local action and here I am in cutoff shorts with my knobby knees watching a man who looks like he runs the world give me the once-over.

I bend one knee and tap my toes against the floor while I wonder if he's changing his mind, but then he stands. I assume he's going to close the distance between us and kiss me right there in front of everyone, but he doesn't. Instead he pauses in front of me. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes because he's about a foot taller than me. At best, the top of my head reaches his shoulders.

He's wearing jeans and loafers with that shirt that's rolled back to his elbows. I suspect his shoes cost more than anything I own. Honestly, that probably goes for his pants and shirt too. I'm fighting the urge to shove my hands into my back pockets and squirm under his gaze when he speaks.

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