I could be happy here.
Oh so happy.
God, was I running that far ahead so early?
I totally was, standing like an idiot in his stairwell, wearing a racy red nightie.
Because…he bought me roses.
Two dozen (I counted as I stemmed them and put them in a vase) bunched beautifully together red, red, red roses.
And he met me at the airport with them.
I thought men like this only existed in books. Men who called you every day. Men who texted you too, so you knew he was thinking about you. Men who weren’t about guessing games. Men who were more concerned about what you thought than what their friends thought.
Real men.
Good men.
My man.
“Dair!” I shouted down the steps.
I expected he wouldn’t hear me, but I got a quick, “Aye!”
“Can you come up here for a sec?” I requested, that “for a sec” part not at all what I intended, but he’d find that out soon enough.
“Be up in a tick!”
God, how could he make “in a tick” sound hot?
I put it down to the powers of a Scottish accent.
Or maybe it was just Dair.
I scurried back to the bedroom.
It was then I realized I hadn’t planned this out far enough. I got to the nightie part and calling him up part and stopped.
I’d never instigated this kind of thing. It was always the guy doing it.
Should I be lounged on the bed invitingly?
Should I sit at the end with legs crossed, arms back, breasts pushed out?
Should I…?
Fuck it.
I sat cross-legged at the end of his bed and fretted.
He hadn’t made any moves since I arrived hours ago, except the couch nap/cuddle (and I was correct, cuddling with him was transcendent).
Maybe he was worried I was jetlagged (I semi-was, but not enough not to want this).
Maybe he wasn’t ready yet.
I’d soon find out.
