I sat at the shiny bar, swirling half melted ice in my glass of rye. I had meant to leave an hour before, but the sheer weight of embarrassment kept my ass firm to my padded bar stool like it had grown roots. I uncrossed and recrossed my long legs for the hundredth time since I had sat down. At least the bar top was just the right height that I could balance my crossed legs on one high-wedge heel and not feel all folded up like a whiskey-drinking preying mantis. I tugged at the hem of my short shirt, adjusted the straps of my top. No sense in giving the bartender a free show.

It was a pretty swank bar, all red leather, shining dark wood, and just the right amount of mood lighting. It was small, a hidden oasis with no sign outside to let you know it was there, and its anonymity made it popular with A-listers and high rollers looking for a bit of ... discretion.

Which was why I was there, and believe it, for a regular girl like me this place had not been easy to find. I must have walked past the door three times before I recognized the entrance to the no-name bar. The "quiet, secret place" where I was to meet a certain tousled blonde, Aussie accented, built-like-you-wouldn't-believe actor of a very popular former HBO series. Last night, after a chance encounter at a party I wasn't even invited to ... a little bit drunk in my best dress ... it had seemed perfectly plausible that this sexy man would find me irresistible and be eager to arrange a rendezvous here at this little bar known for its discretion. "Let's just get a drink." He said. "Then we'll see what happens."

And this is what happened. Pretty boy stood me up and I was left drinking alone in a bar known for A-listers and high rollers with two giggling drunk girls in tight dresses as my only company. I hate giggling. I hate pretty boys. I hated myself for going there, for staying, for looking up hopefully when the door swung open and let in the sounds of the street. And something else.

I knew who he was the moment I set eyes on him. Even though he wore a stocking cap pulled all the way down to his trendy pair of Ray-Bans (Really? At night? Actors.) I recognized him immediately. Ok, his height was a dead giveaway, I'm the first to admit it. But even if I had only seen his face I would have known him, actorly disguise notwithstanding. He pulled himself onto a seat several barstools down from mine, and I responded with a polite smile to his polite nod in my direction. I was not going to geek out about Peter fucking Dinklage. I had already let myself get swept up in the excitement of talking to one handsome HBO actor. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.

I signaled the bartender for one more drink (okay, I wasn't going to outwardly show signs of being impressed, but I wasn't leaving just yet because, Peter.Fucking.Dinklage) and watched out of the corner of my eye as Peter pulled off his hat and sunglasses. He ran his hands through his dark wavy hair and surreptitiously checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He looked good. He's a handsome guy, in a rugged, interesting kind of way. Eyes set just a little too wide. Strong brow and jaw. He's clean shaven in Game of Thrones, but that night he had a full, well-groomed, soft looking beard. I wondered briefly how it would feel under the palm of my hand.

The giggling girls to my left noticed him just moments after I did and began furiously whispering to each other, loud enough for me to hear, but I doubted Peter could, seated as he was further down the bar to my right, and around a slight curve. He and I were almost facing each other, so he had a good view of their antics, even if he couldn't hear them. It must have been painfully obvious that they were whispering about him. He was, after all, the only celebrity in the celebrity bar. And, they were pointing at him. So that was a dead giveaway.

I couldn't hear every word, but they were definitely discussing Peter's ... endowments, and I don't mean to the arts. They seemed to be in great disagreement over the size of his cock. "Regular sized" or "midget-sized, like, you know, stunted." I cringed inwardly at the ignorance of these women who it seemed had at least the intelligence to dress themselves and find this little bar to celebrity stalk in. I wasn't entirely confident as the the proper nomenclature, myself, but I was positive "midget" wasn't it.

Peter ordered a top shelf single malt from the taciturn barkeep and I felt just a little bit more attracted to him. There's just something about a man who knows his whiskey. I wondered what he was doing here all alone. He may not be your typical Hollywood type, but I would expect at least a mini-entourage. No pun intended. Or, he seemed the type to have a handful of close friends to hang out with on a regular basis. But then, this was New York. Maybe he was just passing through or passing time on his way somewhere else.

The arguing, giggling girls' words suddenly became more clear as they passed behind me, tottering in Peter's direction on impossibly high, pinpoint heels. "You ask him! No, YOU ask him! Oh my gawd, I'm not going to, you do it ..."

Oh god.

I tilted my head at Peter and caught his eyes with mine.

"Incoming!" I sang out, loud enough for him to hear, I hoped, but not the girls, who were gripping each others wrists in order to keep their forward momentum going. I flashed him a preemptive apologetic smile. This was not going to be pretty.

The girls arrived at Peter's place at the bar and stood, swaying slightly, until he half-turned to meet them.

"So, you're like, that guy from Game of Thrones, right?" The braver of the two stood slightly in front of the other, the sequins on her micro minidress catching prettily in the amber lights of the bar.

Peter smiled at her indulgently like one would at a small child.

"You are right! I am, indeed. Or, at least, I am one of 'those guys' from Game of Thrones."

Sparkly Girl #2 suddenly spoke up.

"But! You talk American. You don't have an England accent like in the show."

"Aha!" Peter put his hands together, almost in applause. "You are very clever. I do not have an accent in real life. It is part of the acting I do. I *act* as if I have an accent. It was smart of you to notice."

I smirked into my drink. His sarcasm went right over their heads and floated, lost, somewhere near the ceiling.

Unfortunately, his praise and attention gave the dynamic duo confidence, and they decided to cut to the chase.

"So, um. Can we ask you like, a really really personal question?" I couldn't see the girls' faces, their backs were to me. But I could see his. His indulgent smile did not reach his eyes. I could tell by their body language that they thought they were being flirtatious. It was painful.

"Well, ladies, I suppose that depends on the question."

This seemed to stump them. I could almost hear the slow mechanism of their collective brain power trying to figure out how to tell him what the question was without actually asking him the question.

Sparkling Girl #1 decided to just plow ahead with it.

"This might seem like, really forward and stuff, but you're an actor, right? So you're used to like, personal questions, and anyway, you're always like, having lots of sex and stuff on the show, right?"

Peter waited, head slightly tilted, with the patience of a saint. He blinked. He blinked again. When he realized some kind of response was expected of him, he shook his head.

"Oh! Well, yes, that's something else I do when I am *acting.* I pretend to have sex with actresses, who are also acting, as the scene demands. I don't actually have sex on the show. Was that your question?" It hurt a little to see the slightest glimmer of genuine hope in Peter's eyes.

"Well, noooo..." Girl #1 drawled slowly. She cocked her hip in an even more exaggerated attempt at a sexy pose. "What we're dying to know is ..."

Peter raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

She leaned towards him and attempted, I can only assume, to whisper.

"Is your cock like, regular-person sized or ... or ... um ... you know." She finished with a wave of her hand, that seemed intended to take in his person as a whole.

Peter did know. I could see it on his face. I could see that this was not the first time some drunken bitch thought she had the right to ask him a question like that. As if his business was any of hers, just because of his celebrity. A flash of anger shot through me. I was embarrassed for him. For myself for having to witness it. I banged my glass on the bar. I started to slide off my stool. I didn't have any notion of what I intended to do, but I was not going to let these women continue on feeling they had the privilege to be assholes. Maybe he felt he had to be polite. He was famous. I didn't have that kind of restriction. A small wave from Peter's hand stopped me. I planted myself back on my stool, but I continued to simmer.

"Well. That is a really really personal question." Peter answered her amiably. "And if you must know, I will tell you, but you have to answer three questions yourself, first. It will be like a game. How does that sound?"

"Like trivia questions?" Sparkly Girl #2 had found her voice.

"Yes! Exactly like that. Trivia questions. Are you good at trivia?"

Girl #2 put her hands on her hips. "I'm totally good at trivia."

"Excellent." Peter rubbed his hands together. He seemed to be enjoying himself. I'm not sure I believed it.

"First," Peter held up one finger. "What is my name?"

Girl #1 spoke up right away. "I know! Tyr ..."

Her friend quickly elbowed her in the side. "No, dummy. That's his name on the show. His real name is ... um ... Peter ... something. Peter, Peter ... Dinkle!"

I was actually kind of shocked. I hoped the rest of his questions were more difficult.

Peter grinned and flashed a look at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Close enough, close enough. It's Peter Dinklage. Now. My second question might be a little bit harder. Name a movie I've been in."

"That's easy!" Girl #1 crowed. "Game of Thrones!"

"No! Gah!" Girl #2 shrieked in exasperation. She was taking these trivia questions very seriously. "That the SHOW he's on. God, don't be such an idiot. You're embarrassing me."

Hunh.

Girl #2 swayed on her heels and tucked her long hair behind her ears in concentration.

"I know this, I know this, I saw you in a movie ..."

I ran the movies I knew he had been in through my head. I knew exactly what movie she was going to say.

"Ooh ooh! You were in Elf! You were that mean little guy!"

The girls high-fived each other with squeals that dissolved into fits of laughter. This was so fun, wasn't it?

I saw Peter shoot another glance my way.

"Ok, girls, you're doing really well. Answer only one more of my questions, and I will answer yours."

He sat up straighter on his stool.

"This one is really tricky. Are you ready?"

Their heads bobbed in unison.

"You named a movie I was in. Now, tell me a movie that SHE was in." Peter pointed directly at me. I was so surprised I turned and looked behind me, thinking someone else was here that I hadn't noticed.

Girl #1 and Girl #2 turned to see it was me he was pointing at. They both managed to look at me with such derision, such open contempt, that for a brief moment I was thrust back to middle school where the cool kids made fun of my off-brand clothing and JC Penney shoes. But then I remembered I was more intelligent at birth than the two of them combined, and I snapped back to the present in time to stare them back down with what I hoped was aloof disdain.

Girl #1 looked back at Peter with a scowl. "Who, her? She's nobody."

Ouch.

Peter feigned surprise. "Oh! But I assure you, she is somebody. She is a very important somebody from a very important movie. Several, in fact. You only have to name one, and I'll answer your ... original question."

Girl #2 was scrutinizing me like I was a somewhat disgusting specimen, under glass. "So what's her name, then?"

I loved how they were talking about me as if I wasn't there.

Peter shook his head. "No, I can't tell you, that would give it away."

Girl #1 gave me the once over. "Is she Meryl Streep?"

I choked on my whiskey.

"No, no, not Meryl Streep. Come now, think. I know you can guess it." Peter encouraged.

"I bet she was in one of those boring old fashioned movies. Like the Room with the Windows movie with that old dude from Silence of the Lambs. Is that it? Hey! Are you like one of those English ladies with the accent?"

What the hell? Who did she mean? Emma Thompson? Meryl Streep or Emma Thompson? No offense to those wonderful ladies But I had just turned 28 and my hair was long and brown and woven into a braid. Emma Thompson? Really?

Peter flashed me a wink while the girls stared at me, waiting for an answer. I shook my head "no". I was not one of those English ladies with the accent.

Sparkly Girl #2 suddenly raised her hand and jumped up and down like she was answering a really easy question ... in Kindergarten.

"Ooh! Ooh! I know!"

Peter stared, then called on her like a dutiful teacher. "Yes, you have an answer?"

The girl wilted with uncertainty now that she had been called upon. "Uh ... Terminator?"

Peter wrung his hands with mock regret. "Alas, if you are thinking of the esteemed Linda Hamilton, that is not correct. This lovely young lady was not in Terminator."

Did I hear him put some emphasis on "young" just for my benefit? I mean, Linda Hamilton is badass, no doubt, but again, twenty-fucking-eight-years-old. As in, that's my age today, not in 1984 when Terminator came out.

"What a shame, ladies, that was your last guess. I'm sorry, you did not answer all of my questions correctly, so I will not be able to answer your question." Peter hopped off of his stool and ushered them towards the door, soothing their cries of "not fair!" and "one more guess!" and "if she were important I'd know it!" I think they actually thought they had to leave the bar because they didn't win Peter's game. By the time Peter returned from escorting the Sparkling Girls out the door, I had a new whiskey and a wide grin.

The actor passed his original seat and came closer to sit just one stool away from mine. A giddy little burst of pleasure sparked in my belly. He was even more handsome close up.

"Well," he started, rubbing his hands briskly together. "That was ..."

I smiled, ruefully. "Yes, it definitely was. Can I just apologize in general for ... people?"

He brushed my words away. "No, no, no. No need. It's perfectly clear that they were ... in a league of their own, let's just say."

There was a moment of silence, and the companionable clink of ice in glasses.

"You know," I began, hesitantly, looking at Peter from the corner of my eye. "I actually have been in the movies."

He spun on his bar stool to face me. "Have you?"

I laughed. "Years ago I dated a guy who was in film school. I featured in all of his student films. There was, "My Bad" and "My Rabbit Takes Diesel", to name a few."

Peter snapped his fingers. "Man! I'm surprised our young friends didn't guess this. That one said she was very good at trivia. I believe she was under representing herself."

"She was something, all right." I shook my head.

"I'm Peter, obviously. And you are?"

I took his proffered hand. It engulfed mine, warm and strong. "I'm Brynn."

"Brynn. Lovely. Can I buy you a drink?"

I glanced down at my full glass and the one I had ordered for him. His brand. It set me back but the chance I was taking seemed worth it.

He grinned, lifted his glass slightly, and gave me a little nod of thanks. The whiskey went down smooth and strong, just like Peter's charm. God, he had a smile both bright and dangerous. We talked booze and the beauty of live music, and found we shared a love of the same kind of sparse, guitar rock. He won points from me for loving the Black Keys album where they cover Junior Kimbraugh, and I won points from him for my affinity for '80s hair metal bands, courtesy of my older brother.

"Would it hurt your feelings if I told you I've never seen Elf?" I grinned, filling the next comfortable lull in the conversation.

Peter laughed. "No, really, not at all."

"But I have seen you in some really excellent movies."

"So you say. Can you name them?" Peter grinned.

"If I can, will you answer a question of mine?"

Peter's smile faltered for a moment.

"Oh god! Not THAT question! Sorry, sorry, I mean something else, more ... appropriate." I stumbled over my words, appalled, and laid a hand on his forearm. I could feel the muscles tense under my palm.

"Well, not TOO appropriate, I hope."

I didn't even have a question in mind. I was just trying to flirt. God, I was crap at flirting. I would have to think of something unexpected to ask him. I counted the movies I had seen him in on my fingers.

"First, I saw you in Human Nature —"

Peter interrupted me with a guffaw. "You didn't! No one saw Human Nature."

"I did! I love Charlie Kauffman."

He squinted at me with what I optimistically interpreted as interest. Don't act like a total fan girl, I chided myself. Be cool.

"I saw Station Agent. Really excellent, of course." That elicited a modest nod to what was his major breakout role.

"Then I saw Death at a Funeral. The first one. What was the deal with the second one? I didn't see it," I added quickly.

"Long story," Peter smiled ruefully.

"And finally, not to be overlooked ..." I paused for dramatic effect, wiggling my fourth finger in the air. "I saw Knights of Badassdom ."

Peter rocked back on his stool with a look of surprised delight. "Shut up."

I nodded vigorously. "That was a truly epic movie. Funny. Goofy. Geeky. Gory. Your mullet alone sealed the deal for me. I wish you had been in more of the movie, but you did have a spectacularly gruesome death." I laughed, thinking of the outrageous and odd movie. "It must have been a blast to film."

Peter cocked his head at me. "It was. Well, Brynn, you are officially the coolest girl I know."

The compliment, as easy and inconsequential as it was, sang in my ears and sent another burst of warmth traveling through my body. This time, the feeling of liquid warmth swirled in my belly and then surged lower. I was finding myself quite attracted to the actor. His gruff good looks, dazzling charm and reckless smile were a dangerous combination. I squirmed in my chair as a flutter of heat bloomed between my legs.

"The movie was really for Ryan. He's a good guy. We've been friends for a long time." Peter didn't meet my eyes, but looked down in to his glass, then downed a healthy swallow.

My insides cringed and I was suddenly back to that moment two hours ago, stood up by pretty boy Aussie heartthrob Ryan Kwanten. Fuck Ryan, I thought to myself. Those boring, model-gorgeous looks and rock hard, perfect body had nothing on Peter Fucking Dinklage.

My mouth started speaking before my brain could stop it. "Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?"

"Yes. Please." Peter regarded me seriously.

"I was supposed to meet Ryan here. That's why I was sitting alone at the bar when you walked in. He stood me up." I flashed him a smile that felt over-bright and dead false.

Peter's eyes slid away from mine again, danced everywhere but at me. "Let me tell you something about Ryan. He's loyal to a fault. A people pleaser. Constantly over-extending himself. And forgetful as hell. I think he actually had a plane to catch earlier this afternoon. Don't hold it against him." He shot me a sly look out of the corner of his eye. "Besides, if he had gotten to you before I did, my night would have been much poorer for it."

"Mine, too." I smiled.

"You don't mean that." Peter gave a twisted, wry smile to the bottom of his glass.
"I do." Whiskey brave and recklessly aroused, I ran my hand up his arm to his shoulder, over his collar, and twisted a finger in a dark curl of hair at the back of his neck. Brushed the back of my hand over his soft beard. Lightly touched the corner of his mouth with the tips of my fingers. He gave me such and intense look then, his dark brows pulled down over ocean storm eyes, it sent shivers over every inch of me. An irresistible, tingling sensation started between my legs, and built to an ache I could barely stand. I slid off my stool and pulled his arm so that his seat turned to face me. I leaned in over his legs, my eyes on his strong mouth, until I was close enough to kiss it. Instead, I slid my lips to his ear and whispered, "That pretty boy can suck it."

He laughed low, his breath tickling my ear. The shivers surged anew, dancing down my neck, my arms, tightening my nipples. My breath caught in my throat. I pulled back, trying to catch the expression on his face, but he put a strong warm hand to the back of my neck, brought his lips to mine, and kissed me, hard.

I cursed that last whiskey. I blamed it for the fact I was kissing Peter Dinklage in a no-name bar in a sketchy New York neighborhood. On the other hand, if not for that last whiskey, I might not be kissing Peter Fucking Dinklage in bar in a sketchy New York neighborhood. When Peter wrapped his other hand in my braid and pulled, forcing my head back so he could kiss my neck, all of my conflicting emotions were drowned in a wave of overheated desire.

His full lips moved up the side of my neck, leaving hot spots trailing behind them. When his attention was back to my mouth, I teased his tongue with my own. It was a kiss to get lost in, fueled by a passion that surprised me. My breath quickened, I ran my palms up his thighs, letting my thumbs rest against the bulge at the front of his jeans. What are you doing? A voice whispered in my head. What are you doing? What are you doing?

"What are we doing?" I whispered, trying to catch my breath.

With a shake Peter released my braid and grasped my upper arms with both of his hands. Our faces were inches apart, and I saw how his pupils were dilated, making his blue-green eyes look almost black.

"We are getting out of here. Will you come with me?" His low voice, husky with desire, seemed to reverberate in my chest. His touch, his palms on my skin, sizzled with electricity. We were bonded like some chemical reaction, driven by laws of nature, out of human control.

At least, that's what the lust driven part of my brain was trying to patiently explain the the logical part, who was declaring loudly that, of course we were not going anywhere with a celebrity we didn't know. Peter Dinklage was hot, sexy and amazingly good with his mouth. Not to mention funny, charming and wickedly smart. These qualities did not also mean he was not a serial killer. In fact, these qualities made him more likely to be a serial killer. Or at the very least, sexually perverse. Hollywood had fixers for things like that. I bet HBO had a whole stable of fixers for their favorite stars. I mean, have you ever really looked into Woody Harrelson's eyes? Terrifying.

"Of course I'll go with you." I breathed. Well, that was that. Logical and practical packed up their shit and went home.

I didn't even bother to ask where we were going as Peter steered me out of the bar. The top of his head came up to just over the crook of my elbow, but his hand on the small of my back held the kind of command usually reserved for men twice his size. Once outside, Peter led me around the corner and down a dark side street. My heart pounded in my chest. From uncertainty, or arousal, or both, I wasn't sure. Crouching in the shadows was something low, sleek and shiny.

Peter opened the back door of the limo and ushered me in like a true gentleman. The degree to which I was questioning none of this would have been alarming, if the whole situation were not so surreal. I sat on the soft leather seat and watched Peter reach up to rap at the smoky glass that separated us from the driver. I couldn't wait to see what happened next, as if I were watching the scene unfold in a dark movie house. The rap didn't come, Peter's hand stopped just short of the divider.

The leather seat gave slightly under him as he moved in closer to me. His expression was gravely serious. I wondered if he suddenly realized I was a complete nobody, and was trying to think of a way to get me out of the limo in the least awkward way for both of us.

"I must go to the airport. I'd love for you to ride with me, and then the driver can take you home. Or, he can take you home first, if that's what you wish."

"The airport? It's got to be close to 2am." I let my eyes wander the back of the limo. The throb between my legs encouraged me to shut the hell up and imagine what could be done with this kind of room.

A sheepish smile curled the corners of Peter's mouth. "I have a private jet waiting for me. Tomorrow I have to make my way to Morocco, to start preparations for next season."

A private jet. Of course, how silly of me.

"Before you answer, I must tell you something that is weighing on my mind. I should have told you sooner. It will probably determine your answer, so please hear me out for a moment."

Curiosity and unease welled up inside me. This was the part when he told me this was some kind of elaborate joke, that I had been a fool to think Peter Dinklage was attracted to me, that he wanted to sex me up in the back of a limo. The whiskey in my belly turned suddenly sour.

His eyes were dark as he looked at me, but it seemed he could not look long. HIs glance slid away as he began to speak.

"Tonight is not the first time I've seen you." He paused, searching for the words. My stomach dropped. What was this?

"I was at that party last night. When you met Ryan. I don't think you saw me there?"
 I shook my head "no". I had no idea where this was headed. I was on the edge of my seat, literally, back in movie-goer mode.

"I saw you. I was immediately smitten. Your dark hair, that dress ... you kept tugging it up at the top, and then pulling it down at the hem. You were adorable and sexy and I wanted to help you, mostly by getting you out of that vexing dress."

My best dress. Rarely worn. Short, strapless, always on the verge of riding too high at the thigh or creeping down at the bust. My face burned with embarrassment.

"Ryan is a very good friend, even when I make mad requests. I saw the way you looked at him when the two of you spoke. I didn't think I had a chance to follow that look. So I sent Ryan back before we left, to ask you to meet him here, hoping you would say yes, hoping you would find me a reasonable consolation prize when he didn't show up."

Any last feelings of arousal drained from me like water from a tub. What, exactly, was he saying? He purposefully asked Ryan Kwanten to make a date with me, and then stand me up, so that he could come in and pick up the pieces? Woo me and my pathetic broken heart? I was the fool, after all. Tears of anger and embarrassment pricked at my eyes.

I gulped some air. "You could have just come and talked to me. At the party. I'm not some slutty celebrity hound, sniffing around, trying to get laid. Add some big name to my little black book." My voice shook, which made me even more angry.

"I know! I know you're not. Especially now, that I've gotten to know you a little." Peter took my hand. "I knew it last night, too. Girls like that, like those morons at the bar earlier, they shine, but with a false light. They're hard and brittle. Not you. You're warm, and sweet and sexy as hell. I'm so sorry for tricking you, Brynn. I acted immaturely. It was a dick move. Ryan warned me. He didn't want to do it, but he's a loyal friend."

I pulled my hand from his and crossed my arms over my chest. "I still don't understand why you couldn't just talk to me. Last night. Fucking introduce yourself."

Peter sat up a little straighter on the seat. "Look at me, and then think about Ryan. I came to that party with him, and you didn't even realize I was there."

He stared me down. I dropped my eyes, took in his short legs, his man-sized torso. My gaze swept his face: strong mouth, full lips, intense brow, ocean eyes.

Still angry, I spit out the truth. "Ryan dazzles. He's tall, with the hot body and the accent and the surfer hair. You are ... something different. Handsome, charming, intelligent. That's why I like you. If you had talked to me instead of hiding behind your friend, I probably would have told you I've had a crush on you since "Living in Oblivion. Your first movie. Ever."

Peter hung his head, and I swore he was trying to hide a smile. Bastard. "You didn't mention that movie before. That's number five."

"What, do I get a prize now?" Damn it. He was handsome when he was acting contrite. I still couldn't fathom that I was even having this conversation with Peter Fucking Dinklage. Had I been cast in some oddball Rom Com and didn't realize it?

"You never did ask me your question. You won my game, it's your right."

A question. I hadn't thought of one. Now that the shock had worn off, the anger was fading, and the undeniable attraction was sneaking back in. What he had done was ludicrous, but it didn't escape me that someone like Peter had gone to so much trouble to get close to me. Not that he was a celebrity, though that was a big part of it. He was a genuinely interesting person. Mad sexy. Wicked smart. However, I was still a little mad.

I put on my best Sparkly Girl #1 voice. "Is your cock like, regular-person sized or ... or ... um ... you know." I waved my hand, taking him in.

The look on his face! It brought me one second of immense satisfaction, and then immediate regret. An apology was forming on my lips when he burst out laughing.

"I'll tell you what, Brynn, come a little closer and you can find out for yourself."

Perhaps it was all an act. I found I didn't care anymore. Peter was giving me that intense look again, brows lowered over darkening eyes, and I was powerless to resist. I kicked off my shoes and inched closer to him on the seat. He took my move as the invitation it was, and ran his warm hand up my thigh, to the hem of my short skirt. Paused. Breathed in my ear. "Ride to the airport with me. Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Be a good girl and knock on the divider three times. The driver will know what that means."

"You have a secret knock for the limo driver?" I raised an eyebrow at him.

"I am a fucking superstar. Of course I have a secret knock." His smirk could have been interpreted in several different ways, so I ignored it and did as I was told. The limo rumbled to life. Before reclaiming my seat next to Peter, I stealthy and sexily, I hoped, slid my panties off and tucked them into my small purse. The look on Peter's face was again, priceless.

Whether it was my unexpected panty action, or some kind of release he felt at letting the truth out, I couldn't say. But something changed in Peter. The kiss we had shared before had been passionate, but polite. The moment I moved back to his side, he fell on me like a man starved. He pressed me back into the soft seat with a wordless, primitive exhalation. The sound of it woke something in me and I became breathless with throbbing need. One firm grasp and he had my shirt and bra pushed up over my breasts. His mouth moved to mine while his fingers teased first one nipple, then the other, until I was whimpering with desire.

I pulled his shirt off and ran my hands down his back. His skin was hot to the touch, his muscles twitched under my palms. When my hands reached his waistline he pulled back from our desperate embrace and flashed me a mischievous grin. There was a gleam in his eye as I undid the button and zipper of his pants and pushed them down and off, along with his undershorts. And then, just like that, Peter Fucking Dinklage's very manly sized, very hard cock was in my hand. I stroked him with satisfaction, loving how his girth filled my hand. The skin of his shaft was silky and smooth, the knobbed head bulged slightly in a way that I knew would feel amazing inside me. I wanted it. I wanted him.

"Well, that settle that, then ..." I grinned at him but he was no longer smiling. Arousal had brought out a ferocity in Peter and I quivered in excitement at his intensity.

"I've wanted these long legs of yours wrapped around me since I first laid eyes on you ... last night." Peter all but growled at me. He stood up and pulled my legs apart at the knees. When my skirt offered resistance he yanked it off and tossed it aside. His height, and the seat height, was such that he could stand between my spread legs and not hit his head on the limo's upholstered interior.

All thought had left me. I was a molten pool of liquid desire. I didn't know what was more exciting to look at, Peter's gorgeous hard cock in my hand, or the ferocious look on his face. I shifted slightly on the soft seat so I was reclined perfectly. I raised one leg, intending to expose myself further for him, and gasped when he captured it with his hand and pushed it back. With his other hand he traced his finger down my needy slit, gathering the wetness on his fingertip, swirling it back up to circle my throbbing clit, circling, circling, until I was moaning and my breath came in sharp little gasps.

There was no more witty repartee. No more clever words, from either of us. When Peter sank his cock into me, we both shuddered with pure animal lust. He steadied himself with one hand on the seat next to my head, and one still pushing back my leg. I wrapped my other leg around his waist and moved with him as he thrust into me. I gripped the seat on either side of my hips and left fingernail prints in the soft leather. I briefly wondered if the driver could hear us, but the closer I climbed to orgasm, the less I cared. What driver? What limo? There was only Peter, gazing into my eye with ocean storm intensity, and the noise of our bodies moving together.

"Oh, fuck," Peter groaned. "You are ... sexiest ... unbelievable ... Uhnn ..." Coherency seemed to have left him. I knew how he felt.

"Oh my god," I panted, spiraling on the very edge of orgasm. "Oh, oh, oh my god ..." I came hard and my muscles clenched, trapping Peter inside me. He came a moment later, with a guttural groan that thrilled me to the core.

We stayed that way, motionless, for a few moments more, the only sound in the limo that of our labored breathing. Then Peter pulled away with noises of discontent from both of us. He collapsed next to me on the seat, and I laid my head on his shoulder. His cock has softened slightly, but when I ran my finger lightly up the underside, it twitched and danced in a most promising way.

I smiled up at him. "How much time do we have, do you think? Are we going to LaGuardia?"

Peter smiled back, reached over and tweaked my nipple, making me jump. "Nope ... New Jersey."

"New Jersey? Perfect." I shifted over and straddled him. Shivered when I felt the tip of his perfect cock press my wet, engorged sex.

Pretty boys be damned. Peter Fucking Dinklage was one hell of a dead sexy ride.