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“You’re not.”
We’re both quiet. He comes to the table. He has very nice hands, lean, with veins running up his wrists. Musician’s hands, but like he could work with them too. There’s a tattoo across the back of his right hand. Words, I think? It’s hard to say with how worn it is. My eyes drift up his forearms to the broad rise of his shoulders, then to his face. He’s looking at me, dark eyes unreadable.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t move for a second.
“I think so,” he says finally.
“What’s wrong?”
His throat bobs. “I don’t know. I kind of feel like I’ve been dreaming for fifteen years, and suddenly, I’m…just supposed to snap out of it.”
I don’t understand, but I have a feeling that’s a good thing. There’s a lot of weight in his words.
“Do you—”
He circles the table, coming right up to me. We’re inches away.
“I’m not a douche,” he says. “I don’t do this kind of thing a lot.”
My lips falter. “Do what?”
I can taste my heart on my tongue. My body tingles, my pulse races. He smells good, like crisp soap and something else I like. Maybe it’s cologne, but it seems like more of a natural scent. It’s just…him, I think.
“You’re beautiful,” he says simply.
My mouth is so dry. “You’re handsome.”
His hand comes up, cupping my cheek. He dips down, and my eyes shut as his mouth brushes over mine, so close, I taste him. Stars burst in my head. The world feels light, and I’m floating in his arms. Never in my life have I kissed an almost-stranger; it’s always been with men I knew fairly well. Now, I’m melting into his arms, and this almost-stranger is kissing me like there’s nobody else in the world.
Fire rages.
Higher, higher, a wildfire consuming my body.
I don’t think I need to know him for what we’re about to do; this is an instinctual pull. He picks me up and deposits me on the table. The basket tumbles to the ground, and chips scatter everywhere. His hands are all over my neck, in my hair. He’s a really fucking good kisser, and I’m letting him do whatever he wants. His tongue grazes mine, and I moan into his mouth as one hand runs up my spine, locking on the nape of my neck.
He pulls back. “Sorry, is this okay?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more horny in my life.
“Yes, please,” I breathe.
“I can touch?”
His hand hovers over my breast. Without thinking, I pull my t-shirt over my head. I’m in a simple gray cotton bra. Nothing sexy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“You can touch,” I say.
His deliciously big hand runs over my right breast, and I arch, mouth meeting his again. I’ve had a couple of casual boyfriends, but it was nothing like this. Maybe because he’s a good ten years older—I read that on his Wikipedia page—and he clearly knows what he’s doing. I also appreciate that he’s not rushing through the gate and shoving his hands under my clothes, as much as I want to feel them on my bare skin. It’s nice to be asked.
He pulls away, mouth brushing the side of my neck. Shocks of heat follow his touch.
“Can I go down on you?” he breathes.
I freeze.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man down there, maybe four years. While I did shave yesterday morning, I still hesitate. Our gazes meet. He’s practically begging with those big, dark eyes. Faintly, I nod. Hands on my thighs, he drops to his knees.
