Oh, a low blow. Pistachio is my absolute favorite. “You had me a gelato. What movie?”
His answer could be a deal breaker. If he proposes a rom-com, I’m out, gelato or not.
“I was hoping for something scary, so you’d have no choice but to jump into my arms,” he replies with his panty-melting smile.
This new playful and flirty side of him is fun to see. I feel so relaxed and comfortable with him, especially now we seem past any hard feelings or lingering tension from the early disastrous confrontation between him and Luke.
“Okay, but none of the new modern nonsense.”
He mocks being affronted. “Of course not. I was thinking of a classic horror movie like Frankenstein, Night of the Living Dead, or perhaps Dracula.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me as he says Dracula and, with his accent, I dissolve into giggles. He laughs softly and stands up to clear the plates. I move to help, but he motions me back down, so I pull the luxurious throw from the back of the couch across my lap.
I unzip my knee-high platform boots and drop them to the floor so I can curl my legs up under the blanket. After a few minutes, he returns and holds out a hand to me.
“Can I bring this blanket?” I might just steal it, obsessed with the serious fluff.
“Of course, but let’s head to my theater room.”
Uh-oh. Is this a Netflix and chill situation? I wrap the amazing throw around my shoulders and follow him up a set of stairs to the second floor, where we enter an entertainment room.
There are vintage horror movie posters on the walls above a popcorn maker and bar along one wall. A leather loveseat with an end table on each side faces an enormous big screen TV. I really love his place.
“This is incredible. I’d watch movies here all the time!” I exclaim.
“It’s more fun with someone to enjoy it with.”
He's not wrong. He sits down on the leather loveseat and hits a button on the side to recline. I sit next to him and do the same, throwing the soft throw I’ve carried up with me over both of us.
He lifts his arm in invitation, which I gladly accept, burrowing into his side. Reclining the chairs, we can really sprawl out, which is good considering his tall frame takes up most of the space, even with his body angled well into mine.
I sink into the supple leather, in the most comfortable theater seats to exist. If I had this setup, I'd never go out. He pulls up a menu of movies and starts clicking through.
“Oh, Night of the Living Dead! I haven’t seen that in forever.”
He clicks on it, and we watch in companionable silence. I’m thankful for the posh blanket since snuggling into his cool side steals my body heat. As the movie plays, our bodies naturally gravitate toward the other, and the next thing I know, our legs are entwined like a pretzel.
About halfway through, I let out a few yawns, so he hits pause and smiles at me before untangling himself to grab the previously promised gelato.
He brings me back a bowl of the best pistachio gelato I’ve ever had and then makes two Old Fashioneds and sets one down next to me. I am impressed to see a real cherry rather than one of those red dye monstrosities.
I offer him a bite of the gelato when he sits again, but he shakes his head. I enjoy the creamy treat as we sit together, watching the end of the vintage horror movie.
“Last chance,” I say, holding the spoon out. He again shakes his head. I scoop the last spoonful into my mouth, saying, “Your loss.”
“I’d rather taste it off your lips,” he says in a low, gravelly voice.
I whip my head to face him and see the heat in his eyes. Inspired to take decisive action, I take the spoon and scrape up the last few drops, painting my lips with them as he watches.
He holds my eyes as he slowly and deliberately takes the bowl from me and sets it on the end table next to him. Their amber color looks like fire with the desire I see reflected in them.
Before I can process what is happening, he dives across the loveseat, fisting his hand in the back of my hair and licking his warm, wet tongue over the seam of my lips.
I gasp at his sudden tackle, and he takes advantage of my surprise, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and moaning deep in his throat. I come alive under his touch, tangling my tongue with his, nipping at his lips.
Wrapping my arms around his narrow waist, I skim my hands up the corded muscles of his back, again wondering at the rough texture of his skin. The lingering bite of the bourbon on his tongue cuts through the sweetness of the gelato I just ate, turning the kiss into a heady combination.
We make out like teenagers as the credits roll, all roving hands and grinding bodies. Our clothes stay on, but that somehow adds to the thrill of it all. He kisses me as if he is starving for me, touches me as if he is trying to pull me inside his own body. Finally, we break apart, panting.
