Sometimes, I think I pick up on clues that he does, but then my inner voice of reason and doubt replies that is not only improbable, but downright stupid. I must be overanalyzing this simple interaction and turning it into more than it is.
I drop his gaze, mildly ashamed of my thoughts, and finish my dessert. I feel myself start to withdraw, but he quickly draws me back into the conversation, and before I know it, I am reengaged and having a wonderful time talking with him. He just seems so interested in me and somehow so damn familiar.
It’s impossible not to be drawn in by his charm. The conversation is easy, and I just keep reminding myself he is just a nice, albeit extremely handsome, new neighbor. Nothing to get self-conscious about, just making friends.
“I would love to try your drink,” he says, surprising me. Jason had brought him water when he brought my second bourbon, but it has sat untouched in front of him.
I hand him my almost empty rocks glass and he spins the cup to place his lips exactly over where mine had been. He holds my gaze as he takes a sip.
I am mesmerized by the way his lips caress the glass. The thick column of his throat moves as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, followed by his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. How can anyone make taking a sip of bourbon so sexy?
He makes drinking from where my lips had been seem incredibly erotic. I pick the cup up, spinning it the way he had to drink where his lips had been, mimicking his actions. The bourbon seems spicier with this sip, like he has infused it with his tobacco and leather essence. It’s even more delicious this way.
Jason comes and places my bill on the bar in front of me, but before I can protest, my new friend takes out his wallet and drops way too much cash down without ever breaking our heated stare. I’m drowning in his eyes as he stands and takes my hand.
I hastily pick up my bourbon glass and drink the last few sips, loving the final watered-down swig. As he pulls me away, I throw over my shoulder, “Thanks Jason, I loved the new voyage!”
Iwatch them leave the bar together. I thought I could get to her first, but he had surprised me in his filthy, flea-bitten, mutt form. Virtues don’t suit me, but patience is something I have learned over the eons of my damned existence. So, patient I will be.
As we head out, I try to protest that he had bought me dinner, but he waves me away, saying again, “It was my pleasure.”
The way his voice sounds as he says the word pleasure has me squeezing my thighs together, very aware of the effects he has on my body. And he still hasn’t dropped my hand.
It is easy to see he is a big man, but standing this close, holding hands, my head barely reaches his shoulder. He must be at least six-three. I could pretend his solid presence at my side isn’t a comfort after my near disastrous walk alone earlier, but it is. I’ll admit, my vagina is thankful for a penis by my side, for more reasons than one.
I realize while we walk the two blocks back to my place that he has had nothing to eat or drink at the bar other than that super sexy sip of my bourbon. The night has been a whirlwind, leaving me dizzy with lust, liquor, and the earlier adrenaline burst.
I wonder if I should invite him up for a nightcap and then grapple with the implications of that invitation.
On the one hand, my rational mind says, I really don’t know him that well. The hedonistic side argues he can't be a serial killer since he has allowed himself to be seen in public with me, paid for my dinner, was worried about my safety on the way home, and is renovating the properties next to mine.
The rational side argues back—he could still be a serial killer or some type of deviant, or even bury you in the new basement. And then a third voice speaks up and says, ladies—he is not interested in us. He’s just a super nice, super hot guy who is being a boy scout.
And then they all frown and sit down, pouting, taking a vote on whether we want him to be a sexual deviant or not. It’s a unanimous yes, please! Hedonism wins.
I let out a small giggle at the bourbon-fueled imaginary board meeting in my head.
“What is making you laugh?”
“Oh, um, it’s just been a day, and now here we are, walking home, like old friends.”
He gently squeezes my fingers with his and says, “Friends…” like he is rolling it around in his mind. “Yes, I’d like that.”
We reach the back of my building and walk over to the stairs that lead up to my second-floor entrance. I stand at the bottom, shuffling my feet, and pull my hand out of his grasp to dig in my coffin backpack for my keys.
I instantly miss his cool hand in mine, his palm dwarfing my smaller one. Honestly, my fingers hurt and were falling asleep from his between them, but I would have let them fall off from lack of blood flow before I pulled my hand away from his. The risk of gangrene would have been worth it just to keep touching him, loving the way electricity seemed to zing between our skin.
As a kid, we visited Lancaster County farm country, and I couldn’t help but touch the electric fence between me and the cows. I knew it could shock me, but I was justsocurious. I had cautiously brushed the wire with a long piece of grass, feeling a resulting tingle race up my hand to stand my arm hair on end.
His touch reminds me of that same tingling curiosity. I wonder how touching the actual live wire of him will be. Incendiary is my only guess.
I peer up at him and as he steps closer, I’m forced to crank my neck back to meet those amber eyes. The moonlight is bright in the cloudless sky, reflected in his unwavering stare. The boardroom of arguing voices in my mind is blissfully silent, and before I know what is happening, my mouth is saying, “Would you like to come up?”
As soon as I realize what I’ve said, I backtrack. “I mean, I don’t know if you have to work tomorrow or—” I am immediately and effectively shushed with his finger against my lips.
“I’d love to,” he replies, his voice dark, wrapping me with sinful promises.
I’m shocked that I so confidently and smoothly just invited him up to my place. I frantically try to think if my place is even presentable, but his finger resting against my lips drives all coherent thoughts from my mind.
