Why has she grown quiet? And why are her fingertips now twirling her necklace near her cleavage.
Is she actually trying to toy with me?
“Cat got your tongue, doll?”
“Call me doll one more time and I swear I’ll use a fork differently next time…”
She can’t finish her sentence, which is fine, as I’m now pulling up my driveway.
“Your chariot has brought you to your destination.”
Her lips pop. “Okay.”
Neither one of us moves when I turn the engine off.
I tap the wheel, patiently waiting for either one of us to end this boiling pot otherwise known as my car.
Another second goes by.
And another.
My head against the headrest rolls to the side to look atthe woman of my contempt, and Esme seems to mirror my move until our eyes pin one another.
“Want to come inside for a nightcap?” I coolly offer as adrenaline seems to be kicking in.
Instantly she gasps. “Yes.”
5
ESME
Our steps feel heavy yet not terrifying.
In fact, dare I say exciting?
Why? It’s just a nightcap. He seems like a man with a good whiskey collection. It’s probably on a tray in his living room with those crystal tumblers.
“Whiskey? Your flask must be out, or rather I noticed you threw it in your purse when we left.”
The corners of my mouth lift up as it seems my theory about his drink of choice is correct. “Yeah, sounds good.”
We step up to his porch as if this is a normal occurrence. Then again, nothing about tonight has been usual. I’m off balance from the enjoyment of being stuck at a murder mystery with him.
I watch as he unlocks the door then turns off the alarm. I shiver which causes me to cross my arms over my body and my dress that I can confidently say looks sexy and perfect on me.
I hate to think it, but seeing Keats dressed like a character from the Gatsby era is distressing… it’s sexy. His hair slicked back and the way his eyes narrow in on his fictitious mistress have been melting my insides all evening. Only made worse by his fingers digging into my thigh and cross-wiring my body. He’s bold.
The door clicks closed behind us, and I follow him. When he flicks the lights on, I quickly observe my surroundings. This may be an old house, but inside, it’s anything but. Completely refurbished and updated. However, screw the house, because the vision of Keats tossing his bow tie to the side, not a care where it lands, and his fingers popping open the top buttons of his shirt is by far a better view.
A strong knot in the center of my body is weighing me down but screaming for this heightened moment to end.
We haven’t said anything, and the moment Keats turns around, we both know why.
There is no intention for a drink.
For two people who can’t stand one another, we move in unison damn well.
Lunging for one another, our mouths meet for a harsh kiss. His arm encircles my body, and in one jolt, glues my body to his. I’m not protesting. Not when our lips angle for more and not when our tongues meet for a thrashing. My hands come up to curl around his shirt next to the freed buttons. I’m not sure I can stand otherwise.
