With his arm steady, I point at the permanent artwork with a shaky finger, before pressing my forefinger to his warm skin and skimming over the bee and the little trail of dots behind it.
I want to throw myself at this man. Wrap my body around him, tackle him to the floor, and beg him to take me.
Thankfully, he’s saved by the beep of the timer on the microwave.
“Grill should be ready.” He clears his throat, and I wonder if he’d been thinking the same thing I had.
I want him to mark me, in a way that’s better than the first time. I want to have a permanent reminder of him as well.
When we eatat the kitchen island, Cort sits sideways, having pulled my stool close to his, and spreading his knees to bracket me in on my stool. His left foot is casually on the low rung of my stool while his right knee is pressed against mine, keeping us connected somehow while we eat.
The steak is great, grilled veggies amazing, and the company exceptional. The date is the best I can ever remember having. With history between us, both good and bad, we easily recall shared moments as kids or similar experiences from having grown up in a small town. An ease exists that’s always been there and the magnetic pull between us becomes a strong force.
When we finish the meal, Cort and I linger, finishing off the bottle of wine and laughing about stupid pranks and former dates on my side. He admits he hasn’t dated much in the past.
“Bailey sort of took the wind out of my sail.” It’s the first time Cort’s mentioned his ex, and as much as I want to learn all about him and what happened, I’m not ready to discussher.
“Anyway,” Cort sighs, reaching out and tucking my hair behind my ear. “Tonight is about you.”
From the wine to the meal and even the conversation, I certainly feel like the center of his attention.
“Let me take care of the dishes,” I say, slipping from my seat and breaking our knee-to-knee connection, before Cort catches my wrist.
“Vale.” Our eyes lock. “Leave ’em.”
“We don’t have to.”
But Cort is already shaking his head. Just a slight left-right. “Bee, who takes care of you?”
“I do,” I tease flippantly, but something dark in Cort’s eyes chops up my laughter.
“No, who really takes care of you?”
“Cort.” I blink, pulling my eyes from his, and tugging at my arm. We don’t need to get heavy again. It’s been a great night.
Slowly, Cort stands and removes the stool between us. He steps up to me, cups the side of my neck and leans down to kiss me. Just once, soft and sweet, like when I first arrived.
I want him to ravish me instead.
And I think that’s where we’re headed when Cort leads meto his bedroom. Only once there, I’m met with a collection of candles on the bedside stand along with a jar ofmyhoney cream.
“Did you steal that from me?” We don’t sell my stuff at Reflexology, so the only place he could have gotten a jar of my homemade balm is by taking it from the massage room. Or my bedroom.
“I wouldn’t say stealing,” he teases.
“Oh, are you gonna give it back?” I joke.
“In some way, yes.” Cort nods toward the bed. “I want you to lay down, head on the pillow.”
“Cortland,” I groan.
With his hands on my shoulders, he presses me to sit on the edge of his large bed covered with a dark-colored comforter.
“Tonight, it’s your turn for a massage.”
From my seated position, I stare up at him, thinking he must be kidding. Then I glance at the candles and the cream and accept that he’s not.
“Do you even know how to give a massage?” I counter, wanting to sound playful but my throat is thick again.
