I nodded. My heartbeat had begun to accelerate. I took the liberty to finish what little was left in my glass. He leaned into me. But he did not kiss me, I assumed because we were not alone. Because there was another couple two seats over, and a room half filled with strangers—most certainly with cell phones. It was probably for the best.
“Your turn, Solène. Tell me what you’re good at.”
“Watercolors. French. Ballet.”
“Ballet?” His hand had migrated north, his fingers pressing at the inside of my lower thigh.
“I used to do ballet. I was good.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Wasn’t good enough.”
“Mm.” He nodded, fingers mounting. “Go on.”
“Umm…” I was losing focus. “Running. Cooking. Pilates. Spinning.”
“I’m trying to picture you doing all those at once…”
I laughed, uneasy, under the spell of his touch. Trembling, intoxicated, wet.
“I sing. Did I say that? How’d I bloody forget that?” he chuckled. “I sing. I’m quite good. I write songs. I perform. I’m good with people. I like kids.”
“I don’t think you should be talking about liking kids with your hand up my skirt.”
He smiled his half smile. “Is it up your skirt?”
“It’s up my skirt enough.”
“Do you want me to stop?” He started to withdraw.
I grabbed his wrist. “No.”
He leaned forward then and kissed me. His mouth soft, smoky from the Scotch; his tongue supple. It was brief, but he’d made his point.
His fingers persisted, the pressure alternating between soft and strong. “You know what else I’m good at?”
I nodded. Slow.
“Okay.” He smiled. “Shall we get a room?”
“I have a room.”
“Shall we go to it, then?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Do you not trust me?”
“I don’t trustme.”
“I won’t let you do anything you don’t want to do. Promise.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Hayes Campbell.”
“Awww.” He dropped his head. “Are we back to the firstandlast name?”
“That’s who you are, isn’t it?”
